hope

This Is What I Know

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The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

John 1:5

What is light without darkness?

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“Look at the stars, Mom!” my daughter whispered loudly, as we walked outside near our house. I had returned from the US just a few weeks before, from what was the hardest, saddest trip I had ever made. We had lost our nephew tragically; months later, I still do not have words for the depth of collective pain both felt and witnessed in those weeks following, or for these current days.

I looked up, mirroring my daughter’s face. The stars were bright tonight, the winter air dry and crisp and cold, our breath coming out in little puffs. Cause out here in the dark, underneath a canopy of stars, constellations falling from your heart, promise me I’m not alone, cause I’m feeling so very alone… these words from Ellie Holcomb’s song had filled my ears on those long flights, echoing the silent screams in my head as I was suspended over an ocean between my grieving families.

“Yes, they’re so beautiful,” I murmured back, squeezing her hand. If it weren’t for the darkness, never would we witness the glory of these bright and burning balls throughout our galaxy. Would I rather there just not be the darkness? At that moment, yes. And yet he created them both. In the darkness, he gave glorious, beautiful, billions of bodies of light. Humans of all time have looked up in the night, just as we were now, and appreciated the miracle. Did God have to create stars, these sources of lovely light in our night sky? Do they exist only for his glory and our beauty?

We know now that stars are vital for the existence of life, particularly our largest star, the sun. Without it, all life on earth would be exposed to cosmic radiation; without photosynthesis, all plants, animals, and humans would die. Life could not be sustained on earth without stars. Even in the night, God is sustaining our very lives through the physical proximity of earth to the sun.

I held my daughter’s hand as we walked slowly home, both of us quiet, in our own thoughts. The stars are essential for the continued existence of our physical lives, and a source of beauty, comfort, and direction in the darkness of night. In him was life, and this life was the light of men…the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. As long as there has been darkness, longer has there been the true Light. Has the darkness not overcome us, though? Looking at the world some days, it is hard to say. Some days, the night is thick and the outline of the constellations is faint, but the stars are constant, existing no matter the obscurity between us and them. And every morning, the sun itself rises again as the earth turns. In the earliest breaking of the world, in the history of the breaking of the world, and in my current world breaking, light is overcoming darkness, both the literal physical darkness and the deep soul darkness. Jesus has been redeeming the world since its first breaking, and will not stop until the day when all is made new.

When I felt the light of the moon on my face, the memory of sun that been shining for days, you’ve already been in this desolate place, you’ve already been here, and You’ve made a way. Jesus has always been, but he has also physically walked this material dirt under our feet, breathed this air in our lungs, looked at our night sky with its glorious stars. He was with us, and he is with us. His light is breaking in, every day and every night, and in the hearts of those who look for him. This is what I know.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.

Reflections On A Decade+ of Marriage

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“To open myself up to love feels like jumping off a cliff… without any sense of where I’ll land.” I expressed this early on in my relationship with Ben, in those blissful, naive days where looking deeply into his eyes made me blush and our hands were glued together, as we were glued together. I’d jumped off this cliff before, and found myself wounded, jaded, unsure of myself, unsure of love.

And yet, this friendship had grown, over miles run together, long bike rides, treks on Chicago’s “L”. We had talked for dozens of hours, about our families, our theologies, our dreams, if we should even dream. And as our friendship deepened, traces of love began to reveal themselves: a sideways glance, a deeper noticing, a gentler word, a borrowed sweatshirt. As the seasons turned in our city, the season was turning in our relationship – and I was bracing myself, because self-protection is instinctive.

“I’ve seen a lot of marriages end,” I said cautiously, the tea cup warming my hands in that frigid Chicago winter. He looked gently into my eyes, “I haven’t,” he said simply. We’d been dating several months, were madly in love, and were both inwardly contemplating if this person was going to be “my person.” I, however, was still unconvinced that this marriage idea was a good one, even though God had already said so. Wouldn’t marriage be a distraction from a life lived for God? How could I love God and love a husband, both well? Isn’t marriage… mostly hard? Did I really want that?

He convinced me I did. And I jumped off the cliff. Grace caught me.

Tears streamed down my face, as I sat rocking in the warm bath in our first apartment. We’d been married a month, and I wondered if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. We’d fought about… something… which at the time, felt huge. I couldn’t fathom how we’d gotten here, already, in such a short time. Knowing what I now know, as a 4 on the Enneagram, feelings can be extreme for me, and I was feeling the extreme. The urge to self-protect was overpowering, oppressive. But there was grace, and the gentle nudge that we’d committed ourselves to each other, and our marriage to God. I wrapped myself in a towel, and stepped out.

He kissed me on the forehead. “I didn’t know you were so upset,” he said. “Neither did I,” I admit. We sat together, holding hands, my heart opening in the restoration.

The children were bouncing, literally, on and off of the air mattress in our rented home. It had been an intense last few years, with us both in master’s programs, just scraping by with our part-time jobs, and having three babies. The squeals and screams escalated, and he caught my eye. Before there was this, he seemed to say, there was us. Do you remember that? The days of us? It’s easy to lose sight of, amidst the changing diapers, the night feeds, the battles of will, the tiny bodies currently flying in the air. I smile back, yes, us. Look at what’s come from us – look at this beautiful grace. It’s not easy, but it’s beautiful.

Ten and a half years into marriage, and we were driving up California’s Hwy 1 on a long-anticipated getaway, just us. With the Pacific constant on our left, and miles of vegetable and fruit fields on our right, we talked about the deepest parts of our souls, bared our hearts, feeling scared and vulnerable, but held and hopeful. We pulled off at a beach – again – to walk in the sand, watch the waves, breath the salty air as we considered the enormity of a life spent together. I reflected on our ten years, and my grandparents sixty. I long for sixty years. I reflect on the strength it must take to live a life with someone for sixty years. I rest in the grace I know God has provided, and will keep providing.

We spread ourselves and our now four children over two rows on the massive airplane, finally flying home after a long delay across an ocean. Our excessive luggage containing our life of the past eight months was hopefully residing in the belly beneath us, but it’s hard to be sure. Each child has her pillow, check, her blanket, check, her headphones, check. My stomach lurched with the turbulence, my heart ached with fresh goodbyes and yet anticipated the joyous peace of home. I met his eyes over the seats, the children, the ocean and continents below. Those eyes that drew me in long ago, that have held me when I’ve been broken, that have borne my deepest secrets, that have known my truest love. Here we are, suspended between oceans, suspended in time, held in love, held by grace. My heart swells; I cannot imagine another life, could not have imagined the goodness of God in this gift, in these gifts. Hard? Yes. But so good.

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.

james 1:17

On New Years and Some of the Same

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It can feel as though not much has changed since the calendar turned, am I right? COVID is still raging in many areas around the world, the US is still highly polarized politically. We know many people who are suffering, and are still in varying levels of government-mandated protocols. Here in South Africa, our church is not meeting (again), we are staying home (mostly), and it’s tempting to look at 2021 with the same weariness in which we finished out 2020.

However, I can’t help but feel a sense of hope as we begin afresh. I’m reminded of one of my favorite Scripture passages, in Lamentations:

“the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.” (3:22-23)

We have this framed on our living room bookshelf, and I am grateful for the daily reminder that God’s faithfulness has carried us through all these days before, and his love and mercy will carry us all the days forward. I am prompted to think through the ways God has shown his steadfast love to us, his unending mercies. Here’s some of what’s on my list from 2020:

  • the consistency of our already homeschooling life
  • sweet times of fellowship with our church family in November and December
  • a family getaway (rescheduled twice!) that finally happened in early December
  • regular craft and story times for the girls with my parents via Facetime
  • our new family routine of Sabbath every week
  • further developing our principles on wise technology use
  • the intentionality of making Saturdays fun (and a bit different than every other day 😉 )
  • our growing garden which has fed us well this season
  • forest walks and the extra urge to be outside

And so many more! What good gifts from the hand of God, even in a difficult year. I would love to hear what’s on your list for 2020, as you take time to see God’s steadfast love and faithfulness in your life this past year.

And what can we anticipate for 2021? Is our hope in vaccines, a new president, declining numbers, continued good health? No, we hope in God. We can expect that God’s love will continue no matter what, his mercies will extend beyond what we face, his faithfulness will be our safe place. Here’s to 2021, friends! He is good!

Acquainted With Grief

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A few weeks ago during a particularly honest conversation with my mom, in which we were both sharing about the grief we were experiencing as we are transitioning our family overseas, she shared this simple, yet profound thought with me, “Jesus himself is acquainted with grief – that’s what the Bible says.”

In eighth grade, I memorized Isaiah 53 in the King James Version with my video school Bible class (yes, there was such a thing back then – VHS and all!). We started out by reading the chapter every day, and then gradually were able to put the Bible down and recite from memory this rich chapter. There’s much to be gleaned from this prophetic passage detailing Jesus’ coming to and living on earth, for the essential purpose of being “crushed” by the Lord (v. 10) in order to bear our iniquities and account righteousness to us (v. 11). Amazing! And here is why we celebrate Christmas, in a nutshell – in great praise and honor for Jesus’ coming to earth.

Lately, I’ve been pondering this part of this passage:

“He is despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: we hid as it were our faces from him, he was despised, and we esteemed him not. Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted.” 

Isaiah 53:3-4, KJV

Taking a quick look into this passage, we know that the suffering Jesus experienced on earth was that which results from sin – individual sin, corporate sin, a world marked deeply and irrevocably by sin. Jesus had full human experience, all the grief and the sorrow and the suffering we likewise experience, but yet he lived a perfect life. This is an essential part of solid doctrine on the incarnation – Jesus is fully man and fully God. In order to completely accomplish redemption for humankind, Jesus must have lived a human life. In order to completely accomplish redemption for humankind, Jesus must fully be God, because only God can accomplish such a task.

This world is marked by grief and suffering and sorrow, so much, we know, from our own lives, from the news, from the lives of our friends and family. Jesus likewise experienced these griefs, and his suffering accentuates the consequences that sin brings into the world, because he experienced this grief without even sinning. Even more so, he did not just experience our grief and suffering, he “hath borne” them – meaning, he took them upon himself, invited them into his life, “carried” our sorrows. This was not a passive experiencing, but rather a very active one, in which Jesus chose in full obedience to the Father to take upon himself the sins of humankind and experience all of the grief, sorrow, and suffering which accompanies it.

Lately, I’ve had these lingering questions: what do I do with my grief? Where do I put it? How do I do it well? What can I learn from it? There is much yet for the Lord to teach me about this process, but something I have been thankfully clinging to is this: Jesus is acquainted with grief. He knows these very feelings, he has felt these very sorrows, during his life here in this broken world where death comes to all. Grieving, because of distance, because of lost time, because of lost relationship, is not unknown to God, but rather very familiar to him. In my grief, I can sit at the feet of Jesus and know that he is a friend to me. I can look to God as my loving Father, dwell in his shelter and find a shield in his faithfulness (Ps. 91:1-6). I can take great comfort in the God of all comfort, “who comforts us in our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God… for as we share abundantly in Christ’s sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too” (2 Cor. 1:4-5). Not only this, but I can rejoice that through this grief “the tested genuineness of [my] faith – more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire – may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ” (1 Peter 1:7).

And while finding friendship in Jesus, resting in God’s comfort and shelter, and the refinement of my faith are unbelievable gifts, that’s not all. There’s also hope. Because, “out of the anguish of his soul he shall see and be satisfied; by his knowledge shall the righteous one, my servant, make many to be accounted righteous” (Is. 53:11). Because Jesus was acquainted with grief, because he bore the suffering of humanity and ultimately death on the cross so that some might be made righteous on account of him, we have much hope. Because he has already paid the penalty for our sin and in him we are found righteous before God. And because one day, he is going to make all things new. He has already said that he will right all that is wrong with this world: “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away” (Rev. 21:3-4).

And so, in this season where grief is pronounced, I am reminded that I can draw even nearer to the heart of God, for he is my dearest friend, my strong shelter, my ultimate comfort, and the source of my great hope. Merry Christmas to you!

originally published on December 21, 2016