Looking for the Light

I spent some time this week arranging things in my office at church. (Thank you again to everyone who helped move everything out and back in again!) The new carpet looks great, and it was good to rediscover some things and get rid of a few things too.

One of the things I rediscovered was a post-it note on my desk with a quote from Peter on it. “Watch for the light, Mommy. Follow the light.” The quote was from a camping trip up north a few years ago, my first more-than-one-night camping trip with Jay and the kids since the girls were toddlers. Peter and I were on our way to the bathrooms to brush our teeth before bed, and he was sweetly earnest about making sure I got there and back again safely with my flashlight. “Watch for the light, Mommy. Follow the light.”

We’ve been singing a couple of songs about light at our house these mornings—one as a ‘wake up’ song when we get the kids up for school, another as Bri and I pray with Teach Us to Pray, both from Lift Up Your Hearts.

The ‘wake up’ song is #102 (often this is greeted with “Mom! Why are singing that song?!”):

Arise, your light is come!

The Spirit’s call obey;

show forth the glory of your God

which shines on you today.

 

And the other is the chorus of #100:

 

We’ll walk in the light, beautiful light.

Come where the dewdrops of mercy shine bright.

Oh, shine all around us by day and by night.

Jesus, the light of the world.

 

I was walking with a friend this morning who observed that one of the things about walking in the winter is that you’re almost always looking down to pay attention to the ice and snow underfoot, and how you have to be deliberate about looking up to see the beauty around you.

Photo by Alexandr Podvalny from Pexels

We also talked about how these days, whenever the sun peaks through the clouds enough to be seen on our kitchen floors, we summon whoever is home at the time to come and look and see it.

 

Earlier this fall, when Bri and I were praying with Teach Us to Pray, one of the readings was from the 10 plagues in Exodus, and one of the questions was ‘I wonder what deep darkness feels like?’ And we talked about how living right now, in the midst of pandemic and racial injustice, with so much fear and uncertainty, might be what deep darkness feels like.

 

I know that God is present in the darkness as well as in the light. I know that new life begins in the dark. And at the same time, my prayer this week is to notice ‘the dewdrops of mercy’ shining bright each day – the sparkle on snow, the laughter at home, the kind words of a friend, the sun breaking through - to watch for the light, to be deliberate about looking up to see the beauty around me.

 

And I’m reminded of this blessing from the Iona Community:

 

May God bless you.

May God keep you ever with great care

and lead your lives with love.

May Christ’s light shine in our lives,

and peace in heart and home

prevail through every day

till greater life shall call.

Amen.

Spheres of Safety

With all of the restrictions that come with life in the midst of a pandemic, our family has invested in a number of new boardgames. While some, like Throw, Throw, Burrito have been met with mixed reviews (yes, it involves throwing burritos at each other), a new family favorite is now Wingspan. 

This game involves forming a flock of different kinds of birds by playing different bird cards you collect along the way. Each bird card features a different bird from North America and includes a gorgeous drawing of the bird along with some fun facts about the bird. Different characteristics on the card correlate to real characteristics of that bird—like what type of nest it has, how big its wingspan is, in what type of habitat it lives, and what type of food it eats. I like to think that we’re learning a lot about the birds even as we try to outplay the other people in our family. There’s even an app you can download that will play the bird’s song if you take a picture of the card.

We play it quite regularly. We’d probably play it more if I wasn’t the one that won every time. We like it so much we’ve recently added the European birds expansion and friends of ours gave us an upgraded wooden birdfeeder for the game (apparently there’s a whole niche of Wingspan accessories on Etsy.com!)

We’ve discovered that different members of our family have different strategies when it comes to this game. Some of us disregard any emotional attachment we might have to particular birds that we know or like and simply play to maximize our point total so that we might have the best chance of actually winning the game. This is the cutthroat approach. Others of us, however, prioritize the beauty of the game. These players would rather select the more colorful bird or majestic-looking bird over the bird that would best suit their strategy for winning. Their goal seems to be more to collect the birds that make them smile rather than the birds that give them the most points. I suppose the strategy you choose might depend on what your definition of winning might be.

I, as you might surmise, am almost always in the former camp. I try to avoid any emotional attachment to the birds and simply use them for the skills and characteristics that best fit into my overall strategy for that particular game.

There’s one particular bird, however, that I have a remarkable soft spot for. The Atlantic Puffin. Yes—the black and while bird with the bright orange beak and legs. I find them irresistible. And each time they come up in the game, I find myself throwing out my carefully crafted strategy just to be able to acquire that particular card and count the Atlantic Puffin as part of my flock.

Part of the reason I’m so attached to the Atlantic Puffin is because of a magical encounter I had with them while we were on sabbatical back in 2010 and were visiting the Iona Community on the Isle of Iona in Scotland. In the middle of our week there, they organized a day outing to the nearby Isle of Staffa. Because we had small children at the time and there was an age limit for the boat, Elizabeth graciously offered to stay behind and I went on the tour on my own.

The main draw was the interesting geological formation known as Fingal’s Cave—but a secondary attraction was the Atlantic Puffin colony that resided there through the summer. We only had a limited amount of time on the isle, and after spending a considerable amount of it fascinated by Fingal’s Cave, I realized I would need to choose between seeing the spectacular view to the northwest or trying to view the puffins which may or may not be there on the east side of the Isle. I chose taking a gamble on the puffins.

To get there, I needed to make my way up the narrow trail winding up the cliff rising from the ocean’s edge to the plateau on top of the island. We were told that the puffin nests were high up in the cliffs rising above the ocean and as you sat on top of the cliff edge, you actually weren’t very far at all from the puffin nests. The puffins themselves, however, spent almost their whole daytime swimming in the ocean far offshore because they were afraid of the seagulls that terrorized them along the cliffs. And sure enough, when I arrived, the puffins were floating together offshore in the ocean and could barely be made out as specks on the water.

Don’t lose hope if that happens, we had been told. Instead, sit very still. And if you’re lucky, the puffins will fly up and sit on the cliffs next to you. And sure enough, at first one, and then two, and before long 12-15 puffins had flown up and joined us on the cliff edge. And not far away from us either—sometimes just 2 or 3 feet from us. Seemingly the closer the better in some cases!

Apparently, seagulls terrorize puffins, driving them to spend their days floating far out on the water rather than in their nests. And the puffins know that the seagulls are afraid of human beings. And if humans are present, the seagulls will stay away. And if the seagulls stay away, the cliffs are again a safe space for the puffins. So as long as there are humans on the cliff edge, the puffins can come back to land and no longer need to be floating in the ocean for protection. It’s almost as if the puffins see a sphere of safety around each human being.

As this pandemic rages on, I’ve been a bit startled at how my attitude toward other people has shifted. When I see someone walking toward me on the sidewalk, I shift out into the street so as to avoid getting too close to the other person. If I’m at the grocery store or another place where there are other people and someone comes too close to me, I instinctively back away. When I drop the weekly groceries off at my parents’ house and my dad gets a bit too close as he starts to chat, I quickly find an excuse to move to the other side of the room. All of these are necessary precautions in this time of COVID and good steps to take, but I’m worried about how my perception of other people might be affected for the long term. The other day on our walk Elizabeth said, “I’m looking forward to the day when I can be excited to see someone else out for a walk again.”

In this age of COVID, it’s hard to envision human beings as spheres of safety. But perhaps it’s more necessary now than ever. Maybe we’re not yet able to view other people as spheres of safety in terms of sitting safely near others, but what if we ourselves did our best to be a sphere of safety for others? Not physically, but rather emotionally or spiritually?

As political differences divide us and both sides demonize the other, how do we take politics seriously and engage well, but without threatening the other? As the LGBTQ+ debate heats up in the Christian Reformed Church, how might we be a sphere of safety—both for those who disagree with us, but especially for those most affected by this debate—those of us who identify as LGBTQ+ ourselves? When our friends or neighbors are directly affected by the racial tensions and institutional racism that are all too real in the United States, how do the rest of us become a safe ally—someone who can come alongside and help provide at least a small hedge of support and protection? Someone who can help keep the seagulls at bay at least to some degree, help provide just a little bit of room to breathe or feel slightly safer? When the homeless in Grand Rapids are forced out of Heartside Park, even as the weather turns colder, and costs of housing continue to skyrocket in Grand Rapids, what might it look like for me—someone who has a house—to be a sphere of safety for those who don’t? And when there are record numbers of refugees in the world, those who have lost everything—how do I use the blessings I enjoy to be a blessing to those in desperate need?

I don’t have the money of Jeff Bezos, the technological resources of Elon Musk, or the political influence of Donald Trump or Joe Biden. But I have plenty of gifts and resources. And I also have a calling to be a force of redemption in this world. And I have a God who can do immeasurably more than I can ask or imagine.

As that God calls Abraham to leave his homeland in Genesis 12, God repeatedly tells Abraham about how great God is going to make Abraham and his descendants—but each time, he follows that up by indicating how that greatness will be a blessing to all nations. You will be blessed to be a blessing, God says. It’s a theme throughout Scripture—from those who have been given much, much will be expected. Those who have resources are to use them to bless those who are without. Those who have power are to use it not for their own good, but in service to others. Those who can scare away the seagulls are to make a safe place for the puffins.

I smile every time the Atlantic Puffin card comes up in the game Wingspan. I remember that magical afternoon perched on the cliffs of the Isle of Staffa. And I remember the call to be a sphere of safety in a world desperate for peace.

Your Labor Is Not in Vain

A new and wonderful and used-to-be familiar thing is happening in our neighborhood – there are kids on the playground at Mulick Park Elementary School. Last week Tuesday morning Emma noticed some signs put up by the school: ‘We’re so glad you’re back! Your friends at Evergreen Elementary.’ (Evergreen is the Christian school across the street from Mulick Park Elementary School, and it was beautiful to see them reaching out this way.) The traffic has increased. More school buses are driving through the early morning darkness. And you can see kids swinging on the swings and playing!

And all of last week and this week, the song Your Labor Is Not in Vain by the Porter’s Gate has been running through my mind, especially these last few verses:

Your labor is not in vain
The vineyards you plant will bear fruit
The fields will sing out and rejoice with the truth
For all that is old will at last be made new
The vineyards you plant will bear fruit
I am with you, I am with you
I am with you, I am with you
For I have called you, called you by name

Your labor is not in vain
The houses you labored to build
Will finally with laughter and joy be filled
The serpent that hurts and destroys will be killed
And all that is broken be healed
I am with you, I am with you
I am with you, I am with you
For I have called you, called you by name
Your labor is not in vain

Playgrounds full of the sound of children again, after months of waiting and praying and hoping and wearing masks, and limiting our interactions and gatherings, and being cautious. My heart is full of gratitude. Gratitude for answered prayers, for the sight of children being children and doing something normal – going to school. And I am so thankful that Bri, and hopefully other children in our congregation, is getting to be in person again.

I am grateful and singing this song about vineyards bearing fruit and brokenness being healed, and at the same time I’ve been surprised by the grief that has come hand in hand with the gratitude. Grief for what’s been lost – so many losses – so many things we’d anticipated that couldn’t happen as we’d hoped, and so many people gone too. And grief that things are still so far from right or good or normal. It seems so long.

I feel like the pandemic, and particularly this stage of it, is deepening my experiences of both gratitude and grief. Maybe there’s something about having the vaccine, and more of a possibility of an end in sight that creates the space to feel both so strongly. I’m weary too, I think we’re all weary. And in the weariness, it’s good to do both - to give thanks and to grieve. To keep noticing what we’ve been given. To keep thanking the people who bless and sustain us. And to name and mourn the losses. We need to do both, so that we don’t ‘lose heart,’ as the author of Hebrews writes.

One of the books I’m reading these days is Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories that Heal by Rachel Naomi Remen. I read yesterday, ‘...we have in us both sides of everything.... Sometimes our vulnerability is our strength, our fear develops our courage, and our woundedness is the road to our integrity.’

The refrain of the song repeats God’s promise: ‘I am with you, I am with you.’ We are not alone in our weariness, or in our gratitude or in our grief, or in whatever we are experiencing. God promises, ‘I am with you, I am with you’ and one day all that is broken will be healed.

Sacred Space

On Sunday morning I found myself asking my kids to move their boots from where they were piled on a towel near the heating vent in our living room, and saying with some exasperation, “On Sundays, this is our sanctuary, and we wouldn’t have a pile of boots in the sanctuary at church.” I cringe a little, typing it out. It was part of my never-ending quest to have things tidy, but also part of my desire to have our space feel different, some how set apart, for worship on Sundays.

I miss worshipping with you all in person – I miss seeing you terribly. And I miss the space itself – the brightness and openness and simplicity of the sanctuary. And the sense of being in a space where God’s people have prayed together for a long time. As I sit to write this, I’m thinking of your faces and of so many of the times when I felt like I saw glimpses of God’s glory with you in that space: the delight and love on your faces during baptisms, the tears we’ve cried. The time Tammy spoke all of our longing during our prayer time when she raised her hand and said, ‘I just want God to make everything all right in the world.’ The times when little ones have danced and wandered up the aisles. Brendan spotting Marilou across the sanctuary and yelling her name and running to her in delight. Mil Gritter announcing loudly during foot washing that she’d forgotten and was wearing her pantyhose and couldn’t come forward and Jay bringing the bowl from the baptismal font to her and washing her hands instead. I miss the space and I miss you all. The Spirit is surely present when we zoom together, but it’s different and sometimes a lot harder for me to sense God’s glory, God’s presence.

Our sense of our living room being our worship space, our sanctuary, is evolving. At first our Sunday morning set up was mostly focused on the technology – a ring light so we could be clearly seen, a microphone to be heard. Figuring out the best folding table (or tables) at the best height for the computer, making sure we could reach the pitcher and water and elements for communion while sitting in front the computer, etc. There are the relational details too – making sure everyone has what they need to be engaged (or at least quiet) doing the service, the arguments about who would sit where. Sometime early on we started covering the folding table with a cloth the color of the liturgical season. Then we added a wooden cross made by one of the kids to the trunk that sits in front of our window. Soon fresh flowers and a seasonal cloth were added there too, along with my efforts to tidy the room.

I wish I could say that there’s a growing sense that the room is a place where God’s people pray, but I’m not sure about that. So many other things happen there during the week that it’s hard to keep that awareness.

Jay, overhearing my comment to the kids about the boots, said, ‘but isn’t the point that God is with us in the mess?’ I won’t include my reply, but I’ve been thinking about what he said all week, along with that story of Jacob at Bethel, saying, ‘surely God was in this place and I didn’t know it.’ I’ve been asking myself, do I really believe God is with us in the mess? I want to. Do I really believe God is with us in our living room? Of course. Is our home as much the ‘house of God’ (which is what Bethel means) as our church building? Yes. And if I really believe all these things, how do I open myself up to be aware of God’s presence, with us when we worship in the living room and when we pile our boots there?

The Weight of Worry

I happened to see a photobook on our bookshelves this morning. It was a collection of photos from a backpacking trip my dad and I took ten years ago to Isle Royale National Park. There were pages dedicated to the road trip up to the Upper Peninsula, the boat ride over to the island, the views from the various campsites we had during our week-long adventure, the sunsets we experienced, the fish we caught, the flowers we enjoyed, the wildlife we encountered, and the injuries we sustained.

It was this last page that caught my attention in particular. The photos started with the rather charming bright orange twine that my dad had tied around the toes of his boots to hold them together. The twine soon had to be upgraded to metal wire. Then there were the scrapes and bruises—at one point my dad had fallen off one of the plank bridges. Then there was the gash across his wrist. We had taken a filet knife along to filet the northern pike we had hoped to catch—it was properly sheathed when we started, but it was so sharp that the back-and-forth wobble of the backpack had caused it to cut through its sheath. When my dad reached into his pack on the third day, it sliced his wrist. He didn’t even realize it until I asked him why he was covered in blood while trying to start the campfire. Thankfully we were at one of the two campgrounds on the 40-mile-long island that were near a ranger station. When two rangers happened to stop by about ten minutes later and asked how everything was going, it was pretty hard to pretend everything was okay as my dad held a bloody rag to his wrist and seemed a bit pale (believe me, we tried…). They brought us to the station, cleaned everything out, put some heavy-duty bandages on the wound and sent us on our way.

But the picture that really struck me was the picture of my ankles. There were multiple large gouges in the back of each one. As bad as my dad’s wrist was, this photo was the culmination photo on our page of injuries. These gouges were the result of blisters gone bad—shoes rubbing in the wrong places, each step slowly slicing away more and more of my skin. And while I remember that trip fondly and had an absolutely fabulous time, by the third day, every step was a pain. 

And to be honest, I should have known better. This wasn’t the first time my ankles had been gouged. Indeed, about ten years earlier, the summer after seminary, just before accepting the call to Boston Square, I hiked 300 miles along the Appalachian Trail through Virginia. I had planned everything out carefully—not well, but carefully. I had even made sure to splurge a little and get the high-quality hiking boots. I had the proper boots, but unfortunately I didn’t bother to break them in sufficiently (there were the finals to get through at seminary, after all…). So I still remember hiking those first seven miles the very first day with seventy pounds on my back (way more than I should have carried) and taking my shoes off that first night to find bloody socks and blisters already formed on my feet. The thing with blisters and backpacking is that once you have blisters, it’s almost impossible to get them to heal unless you stop hiking. I tried everything—bandages, moleskin, extra padding, even just covering them with duct tape—but each day they just got worse. 300 miles later, my ankles were a mess. I still have scars on them from that summer.

So I should have known and been extra careful about making sure I had good hiking shoes that were properly broken in for this hike. At least this time I didn’t wear a brand-new pair of boots. But here’s another thing with backpacking—it’s one thing for a pair of shoes not to rub when you’re just walking around your neighborhood. It’s a whole ‘nother thing for them not to rub when you’re carrying thirty, forty, or fifty pounds on your back going down backcountry trails.

This past summer I took our kids on their first backpacking adventure—two nights along the Manistee River Trail. Five miles in with packs, ten miles exploring the next day without packs, and five miles out the last day. I wore boots that I’ve had for a long time. I’ve intentionally worn them back and forth to church through the winter precisely so there would be no question that they were broken in and formed to my feet and would be ready to go in case I ever dusted off the old backpack again. And yet, after just ten miles with a pack, I felt the hot spots forming on my feet and were glad to take the boots off again at the end of our trip without any blood on my socks.

I bought a new pair of hiking boots this fall when there was a sale. I’m in what seems like an endless search for a pair that won’t cause blisters on my ankles. I wore them this morning in the snow as I walked the dog. They were great—soft and comfortable. Provided solid support across the icy spots. But I have this nagging feeling that things will be different when I’m carrying thirty or forty pounds on my back and every step is unforgiving.

That’s not all that unlike life. It strikes me that it’s that much harder to get through life, to make it from day to day, to not be wounded, when we’re carrying heavy burdens on our shoulders. Whether that’s worry or anxiety or anger or fear—the weight makes every step harder. Sometimes it’s guilt or shame or simply holding grudges against others that slowly over time eat away at our soul. “Do not be anxious about anything,” Paul tells us in Philippians 4:6, “but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”

I admit, these days in particular, this is hard to do. Especially with all the unrest in the nation’s capital—the United States seemingly more divided than it’s been in generations and more prone to turning to violence. And then there’s the pandemic and all the uncertainty that still lingers and the hospitals in various parts of the country overwhelmed with patients in the ICU. And right in our neighborhood there are seemingly nightly gunshots that ring out—a massive change compared to not knowingly hearing a single one for the first sixteen years we lived in this house. And that’s just stuff beyond our family…. It’s hard not to worry…but when we do, especially when worry weighs down upon us, it can be incredibly destructive in our lives.

Paul’s not telling us not to be concerned, not to be involved or not to do what we can to help. He’s not telling us to pretend things aren’t bad. Rather, he’s telling us how to respond when things do get bad. He’s telling us to trust God. To turn to God. To place our lives in God’s hands. We don’t know how things will turn out in the short term—sometimes it might well be not the way we might like. But we do know how things will turn out in the long term—we know that they will be good.

As I walked around in my comfy new boots this morning, I wondered how they would do once I took them out on an actual backpacking trip. How would they hold up with that extra weight on my back? How would my perpetually tender ankles respond to this new pair? There’s only one way to find out—and I look forward to one day heading out on that next adventure with a backpack on my back. When it comes to life in general, however, I’d rather walk around without that weight on my shoulders.

Singing Ice

Today is Epiphany, the day we traditionally celebrate the coming of the Magi to present their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh to Jesus and to worship him. I read the story from Matthew 2 this morning, and I kept picturing Marji Gunnoe happily heading home ‘by another way’ from this year’s Christmas pageant. I’ve also been doing a bit of reading about the season of Epiphany, in Seeking God’s Face, the Worship Sourcebook and in a reflection from Ruth Haley Barton, and a couple of things caught my attention. Ruth Haley Barton begins her reflection with a quote from Mary Oliver, one of my favorite poets. The quote is this:

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.

 

Phil Reinders, the editor of Seeking God’s Face, begins his introduction to the season of Epiphany with these words: Epiphany. We know the word: a moment of piercing awareness, the jolt of understanding. Imagine, then, that moment stretched out over a period of time. This is the season of Epiphany . . .

 

I am not always the best at paying attention, being present in the moment. I tend to spend a lot of time in my head, replaying past events or anxiously trying to prepare for what’s ahead. But there have been a couple of moments in the last few weeks where God has used the beauty of nature to call me to attention. Last week, when we were on vacation, we spent several days at my parents’ cottage on the shore of Spring Lake, and over those days we got to watch the lake freeze – first parts by the shore and then a few days later, the whole way across. There’s something magical about the sounds of ice forming on a lake – cracking and snapping first, and then singing. Singing! On Friday morning we awoke to find the lake frozen all the way across, with ice about an inch thick. And when we tossed snowballs and smaller pieces of ice out onto it, the sounds were amazing – almost like a synthesizer – you could hear ringing vibrations across the ice. The ice was singing. At one point, having tired of tossing ice, I was standing at the end of the dock, thinking. Actually stewing a bit over unkind words spoken at breakfast. One of the kids came up to me and asked, ‘Mom, are you wondering how the ice formed those patterns?’ Assuming I was paying attention to the beauty in front of me, inviting me back to awareness. Attention.

A few days later it happened again – I was outside, early in the morning before light, waiting to walk one of the kids to school, fretting about how the day might go, worrying about a conversation from the night before, when suddenly a rabbit appeared in our yard, right behind the ‘Christ will hold us together’ yard sign. Another invitation to be present, to pay attention to the world around me, to the wonder of this small, silent creature with me in the dawning light.

 

What would it be like, to receive the moments of my days with the same attention and wonder as the singing ice, or the quiet rabbit? To be present to the familiar rhythms of my days and to experience them and the familiar stories of Jesus this season with attention and astonishment?

 

O God,

By the leading of a star you manifested

Your only Son to the peoples of the earth:

Lead us, who know you now by faith, to your presence,

Where we may see your glory face to face,

Through Jesus Christ, our Lord, who lives and reigns

With you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever, Amen.

(from the Worship Sourcebook)

God with Us

I have a friend who wrote about a month ago: Christmas cannot be canceled because Christmas is God with Us in every circumstance, even a global pandemic. With that simple statement, he cut through all the consumerism and materialism of the weeks leading up to Christmas and focused my heart and attention directly on why it is that we celebrate the birth of Jesus.

This is a strange year to celebrate Christmas. I’ve heard many people express something along these lines: “This is not the Christmas we had hoped for” or “This is not the Christmas we had planned.” These words are often accompanied by a shrug of the shoulders, an expression of “whatchya gonna do?” and a resignation to make the most of what has been for some time now a very difficult year.

It’s certainly not the Christmas most of us had envisioned at the start of 2020, but perhaps it’s the Christmas that will help us see anew the wonder of God with Us. For Elizabeth and me, Christmas has been a difficult season for a number of years now. It was just before Christmas about a dozen years ago that Elizabeth’s grandmother died. That was the Christmas service where I led the liturgy, preached, directed the choir and played trumpet in the brass ensemble (we decided later that was just a slight bit of over-functioning…) And it was about ten years ago on Christmas Eve that we suffered a miscarriage and spent pretty much the whole night in the hospital. Remember these losses each year as everything around us tells us that we’re supposed to be joyful and merry is particularly challenging, and I know others have similar experiences around Christmas each year.

That year we spent Christmas Eve in the hospital, I still came home, showered, and preached the next morning. I preached because the sermon was already ready to go and I felt a need to fulfill people’s expectations for a Christmas service—but that was a mistake. I was not emotionally fit to lead worship at that point. Frankly I was a mess. It was all a bit of a blur. But one thing I remember saying that morning was that in some ways, this is what Christmas is all about—God. Becoming Human. Not ignoring our suffering but entering into it. Carrying our sorrow. Redeeming our broken and hurting world.

This Christmas in the midst of a pandemic is not the Christmas we had expected or hoped for. But it’s still Christmas. Maybe it is especially Christmas. It is still God with Us.