A SAVIOR

It was Christmas morning.

The house was quiet.

Evidence three guys stayed up much too late playing with their new toys.

The day was going to be busy.

We were going to be traveling a couple of hours to spend the day with those that know us the best and love us the most.

I was thankful for the quiet.

Quiet that would give me a little time to imagine the sky that was filled with His Glory on that first Christmas day.

In the quiet, I could imagine how the angels must have sounded as they sang praises to the Newborn King.

In the quiet of Christmas morning I wanted to picture the tiny little hands and feet of God Himself.

In the quiet I wanted to remember The Baby asleep in His bed.


But all I could remember in the quiet of this Christmas morning was when my baby laid in a bed.

A hospital bed.

I remembered the Christmas morning when we walked into an ICU room that was filled with strangers and machines and wires and despair.

I remembered standing by Ethan's bed and closing my wet eyes and wondering how a person could feel such intense horrifying pain and feel completely numb all at the same time.

I remembered and, for a moment, I couldn't breathe.

I scolded myself.

"Cheri, Christmas isn't about you. Christmas isn't about Ethan, or about him being hurt. Christmas is about Jesus."

I tried to turn my mind back to The Baby, but I couldn't.

Every time I would try to take my mind and my heart back to the stable and the manger and The Baby, it would go right back to the hospital and to my baby in the hospital bed.

The tears came. And so did the condemnation.

I didn't want this morning, or this Christmas, to be about me.

And then I heard the words . . .

"For there is born to you, this day in the city of David, a Savior, who is Christ the Lord."

A Savior.

A Savior. For me.

He was born for me.

And he was born for Ethan.

A Savior that was born for living rooms, and hospital rooms.

A Savior that was born for moments when the laughter can't be stopped, and for moments when the crying can't be consoled.

A Savior that was born for the days when the wind is calm and the sun is shining, and for days when the storms come and take everything out in their paths.

A Savior that was born when we proudly hold up our little trophies, and for the moments when our heads are bowed down with shame.

Yes. A Savior has been born.

I was wrong Christmas morning, as I sat curled up on the sofa, scolding myself.

Christmas is about me.

Jesus made it about me.

He made it about Ethan.

He made it about you.

When He left heaven and came to live with us, to be tempted like us and to be rejected by His own creation, He made Christmas about us.

When Jesus left heaven and the singing of angels and the beauty of a sinless place, to come to this broken and hurtful earth, He made Christmas about us.


The chorus is true . . .

"That's why we praise Him,

That's why we sing,

That's why we offer Him our everything.

That's why we bow down and worship the King,

'Cause He gave His everything,

'Cause He gave His everything."

And because He made Christmas about us.
 

"We love Him because he first loved us."

1 John 4:19

NO ROOM

"And she brought forth her firstborn Son, and wrapped Him in swaddling cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn." Luke 2:7

No room.

Jesus was identifying with us before he ever left his mother's womb.

No room.

He came to experience everything we've ever felt.

No room.

He came to experience rejection and acceptance.

He came to experience hospitality with welcoming embraces and walls and hard boundaries and closed arms and hearts.

No room.

Those two words remind me that Jesus knows what it's like to be turned away.

They remind me that He knows what it feels like for the invitation not to come, for the phone not to ring, or the e-mail not to be answered.

A friend, that's a mother of grown children, told me the other day that she longs to mother but no one seems to want to be mothered any more.


He knows her pain. The pain of no room.

Yes. Before He saw his mamma's face or felt his earthly daddy's strong arms, He knew what it was like to be us.

"For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin." Hebrews 4:14

Jesus came with the intention of experiencing all we experience. Even as the angels were singing of His birth and the Wise Men were making their journey, He chose to feel what we feel.

"He is despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief and we hid, as it were, our faces from Him; He was despised, and we did not esteem Him."  Isaiah 53:3

We told Him there was no room.

"Any other king would’ve come with great fanfare, a royal entourage and muscle-flexing pride. But you came into our world in utter weakness and with profound humility. “No room in the inn” wasn’t an insult to you. It was your choice, your plan, the way of the gospel." Scotty Smith

Jesus has felt every feeling I have ever had. Yet, I can only imagine what He felt when He dwelt among us.

I can only imagine what He feels today.

My heart hurts because I know He still hears the same words He heard that first Christmas Eve, just moments before His birth . . . no room.

What hurts the most is that He hears them from me.

The innkeepers that turned Jesus away, didn't know who He was.

I do.

I know Jesus is my Sacrifice, my Substitute, and my Savior, yet way too often there is no room in my heart for Him.

The place that has been reserved for Him, becomes occupied by family and friends and even service to Him.

His creation, His comforts, His blessings, take up the space that was made for Him alone.

The gifts have replaced the Giver.

"In the deep heart of the man was a shrine where none but God was worthy to come. Within him was God; without, a thousand gifts which God had showered upon him. But sin has introduced complications and has made those very gifts of God a potential sourse of ruin to the soul. Our woes began when God was forced out of His central shrine and things were allowed to enter. Within the human heart things have taken over. Men have now by nature no peace within their hearts, for God is crowned there no longer, but there in the moral dusk, stubborn and aggressive usurpers fight among themselves for first place on the throne." A.W. Tozer from The Pursuit of God

No room.

I don't know why I allow it to happen.

I repent and say, "Yes. Jesus come. Yes. Yes. Yes. There is room for you. Take every room, all the room, you want."

And He smiles and He comes and He sits on the throne of my heart knowing full well that the old innkeeper in me, will once again allow the gifts He's given me to squeeze Him out again.

He knows I don't want to be the innkeeper. He knows I hate the innkeeper in me that gives His room to someone else.

But I know He loves me. Innkeeper and all.

God loves me in spite of myself. 

He loves me because I am myself.

And that never ceases to amaze me.

And I pray that it never will.

Come Lord Jesus . . Come.

'CAUSE IT'S A LONG DONKEY RIDE

Dear Secret Friend,

I read your card.

You said that the prayers you have prayed for me are inside the beautiful ornament. You said that you made the same ornament for your own tree. With the same prayers for me inside it.

You said that every year, when you put the ornament on your tree, you will remember to pray for me. But then you also said that you're sure that you won't need a reminder, because praying for me has become a habit.

Me.

A habit.

What a wonderful thing to be.
























I asked God, "Why?"

"Why would You give me such a good friend?"

"Because I know it's been a long donkey ride."

I heard a guest speaker a couple of weeks ago, at a Christmas luncheon, compare Mary's donkey ride to Bethlehem with the journey we are called to take in our lives.

In Luke, Chapter 1, the 34th verse, after the angel had shared the plans for the Messiah's birth, Mary asks "how?"

Mary was willing to accept all that God had told her about the Savior's birth, but she didn't know "how?"

Most of the time, I'm willing to walk the path God has laid down for me, my donkey ride, but my question is "how?"

It usually seems impossible.

And most of the time it is.


That is why God tells me exactly what the angel Gabriel told Mary so long ago.

"The Holy Spirit will come upon you . . ." (v.35)


It is by His Spirit that I stay on the path he has laid down for me.

It is by His strength that I do what He has asked me to do.

And God knows it's hard.

And He knows my frame, and that I'm dust. (Psalm 103:14)

God knows the path can be lonely and bumpy. And that just about the time I think I see my Bethlehem, I realize it is just a mirage.

And the journey continues.

God knows that the journey causes weariness. That the length, and the bumpiness, and the loneliness cause me to want to get off my donkey and quit. That the uncertainty of where I am going causes me to despair and to lose heart.

I believe, Dear Friend, that is why God sent you to me.

He wants me to stay on my donkey.

He wants me to stay on the journey.

He wants me to know that I am not alone.

He wants me to experience joy regardless of the length of the journey, the bumpiness of the path, or the darkness of the nights.

God knows that it is love that will keep me on my donkey.


Looking back over the last few very hard months, I now know that it was your prayers that helped to keep me on my donkey.

And looking forward, to the rest of the journey, I know that God will bless those same prayers by giving me the strength to stay on it.

Your prayers, that God has promised to answer, will undoubtedly cause me to do much singing and rejoicing while I'm traveling on this journey.

A journey that will end with us both seeing the Baby in the Manger, face to face.













With a heart full of gratitude to you and to the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,

Cheri

A CHRISTMAS STORY ONLY GOD COULD WRITE

I'd like to tell you an amazing story.


I can call it amazing, because it has nothing to do with me.


And yes, it is a Christmas story.

A wonderful Christmas story.

Last week, on the eight anniversary of Ethan being injured, my sister went into a grocery store to pick up a couple of things for her son-in-law's birthday party. It's a store where she doesn't usually shop, but that day it just happened to be convenient.


She laid a few items on the counter and reached into her purse for her cash. As she handed the cash to the clerk and looked her into her face, she thought she recognized her.

Her hair was different, and she seemed awfully thin, but my sister  knew it was her.


Debbie, my sister, asked her if she had worked for the grocery chain very long.


The clerk said "yes."


Debbie asked her if she had ever worked at the store closest to Debbie's house, and if she had, was there any chance that she had been working there eight years ago?

The clerk, though puzzled, thought for a moment and then smiled and said, "Why yes. I did work at that store eight years ago."

My sister then asked her if she remembered a woman, who while checking out groceries the week before Christmas eight years before, had asked her if she believed in miracles.


The clerk said, "Yes. That was you. It was your nephew. Your sister's boy. I prayed for him but I never knew what happened."


My sister, the one seeking a miracle for her nephew, and the clerk who believed in them, were brought back together eight years to the day on which Ethan was hurt, at a grocery store across town from where they had first met.


They were brought back together by a God who sees everything.


By a God who saw a young man who had made a terrible choice, who was sitting alone in his apartment barely breathing, for hours.


A God who saw a mom and dad out shopping for Christmas presents that their child would never be able to enjoy. 


A God who saw doctors and nurses, who would soon be standing over our Ethan, believing he was gone . . . that it was too late, but willing to use their skills and experience to allow God to work through them.


A God who saw a big brother at home, waiting for hours, days, and months, to know if he would spend the rest of his life with or without his best friend.


A God who saw an aunt, with tears streaming down her face in a grocery store check-out line, desperately seeking a miracle for her nephew, and for me, and for Jim, and for Seth.


And a God who saw one of His precious children, working as a clerk in a grocery store, that believed in Him and what He could do.


The God who sees, is the God who left heaven, took on flesh, and became man to dwell with us. (John 1:14)


Last week my sister was able to share how God showed His glory by waking up the nephew for whom the clerk had prayed. 


She shared how God had given Ethan back his memory, his intelligence, and his wonderful sense of humor.


Debbie told the clerk what a joy and delight Ethan is to our entire family.


As my sister was sharing this amazing Christmas story with me, we were both crying on the phone.


We were crying because the memory of the pain we felt during those very dark days is still very real.


We were crying because our hearts were overflowing with gratitude to the God who sees, and who does more than we can ever imagine or hope for. (Ephesians 3:10)

But we also cried tears because we so desperately want complete healing for Ethan's body. 


Loss hurts, even in the presence of a heart full of gratitude.


The God who took on flesh, and came to dwell with us, has shown His glory in the ways he has healed Ethan.


But, my friends, He has also shown His glory the greatest in the ways in which He has not.


His glory has shown the brightest in our darkness.


In the darkness of our loss and sadness, His glory has brought unbelievable and undeserved joy, comfort, and strength.


His glory has brought life. 


"Turning the calendar page to December doesn't turn life into this dance of the sugarplum fairies."  Ann Voscamp


Oh, how I know Ann's statement is true.


But I also know what memories from past Christmases or a beautifully decorated tree or parties or even friends and family can't do, God can do.


And that my friends, is what I ask for you, and for my sister, and for the clerk at the grocery store this Christmas.


I pray that His glory will shine brightly in your darkness.


I pray that the good tidings of great joy that the angels promised to the Shepherds, as they found themselves in the darkness that Christmas night so long ago, will fill your heart and bring you peace.


"Then the angel said to them, Do not be afraid, for behold I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign to you: You will find a babe wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger." And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying: 

"Glory to God in the highest. 

And on earth peace, 

goodwill toward men."

Luke 2:10-14

 

THE LAST TEN DAYS

Dear Friends,

I have so much I'd like to share. So many stories I'd like to tell.

My heart is broken that I can't.

Ten days ago my mother fell and broke her hip in three places.

It has been difficult, as I have wanted and needed to be with Jim and Ethan, to be two hours away with my mother and dad. I fight the guilt of leaving one to be with the other.

It has been difficult and scary to think of my 88 year old dad being alone, while my mother is in rehab.

My heart breaks when I see the pain my mother is experiencing from her injury.   I am sad I can't take away the fears that uncertainty brings, and her disappointment of not being at home for Christmas.

Thinking of the future, as my parent's independence seems to be slipping away, is overwhelming. My sister and I so desperately want what is best for them, but the answers to what that might be and how it will come about seem to be hidden.

The last ten days have been difficult for my "recovering people-pleaser self." I'm fighting the feelings of failure that come from not being able to meet the expectations of others, and the expectations I have for myself.

This time of year is filled with memories of God's faithfulness towards our family. Seven years ago today, we brought Ethan back to the hospital where he was born. He took the four and a half hour trip in an ambulance with a ventilator helping him breathe. His broken and desperate parents followed him in their car, while they prayed for mercy and strength. The doctors had told us that the child we were bringing home would never wake up. They told us that he was gone . . . that his brain had suffered too great of an injury.

I praise God everyday that He gave Ethan back to us. I thank Him everyday for Ethan's life and the miracle He has done.

But I also grieve everyday for the part of Ethan that is still missing. I want it back.

I want all of my child.

I miss not having all of Ethan.

The emotions that come from remembering make it difficult to deal with another trial at this time of the year.

Seven years ago, when Christmas seemed to be salt poured into a gaping wound and just a horrible reminder of all that was lost, God gently reminded me that Christmas was the only reason I had any hope at all. He even sent a sweet man, Father Julien, to confirm His words to me.

Once again, in the darkness and the disappointment, I am trusting in the Sweet Baby in the Manger. I am trusting in the hope He brings to us all.

My hope this Christmas is found in His words . . .

"I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. 

In this world you will have trouble. 

But take heart! 

I have overcome the world."  

John 16:33

I wish you all the love and hope and peace The Overcomer brings.

Cheri

ALL

"The hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight."

Because God came, to be with us, all of our hopes and all of our fears are safe with Him.

"Behold, the virgin shall be with child, and bear a Son, and they shall call His name Immanuel, which is translated, God with us."  Matthew 1:23

 There is no hope, there is no fear, that He doesn't understand. Jesus came for them all. 

 "For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need". Hebrews 4:15-16 

I have so many hopes, and so many fears.

May they all be laid down at the manger.

And at the cross.

"O come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Immanuel!"

KNOWN

"He was in the world, and the world was made through Him, and the world did not know Him." John 1:9-10

I think that's one of the saddest verses in the Bible.

The world that Jesus made, the world that He left heaven to die for, the ones He loved, didn't know Him.

They saw Him. They saw His light. They looked at Him with their eyes. But they never saw Him.

His creation sees Him today. But, they still don't know Him.




I know a little of the pain of being seen, and of not being known. I know the pain of loving someone so much that you would never think about not laying down your life for them, and them seeing you, but not knowing you.

I know the pain and the agony of looking into the eyes of your precious child, and him not knowing you are the one that God chose to give him life.

When I think about my pain, and the human love from which it is born, and I compare it to the pain that comes from the perfect, selfless love of Jesus, my heart breaks over the rejection He must have felt.

It breaks for the rejection He still must feel.

It was two weeks after Ethan's injury before he opened his eyes. I was standing at the foot of Ethan's bed with a nurse. The nurse, who became my friend, and a messenger of God's comfort and compassion, said "Look. His eyes are open."

The doctor in the room, a neurologist, was quick to temper the excitement and hope of the moment. "It doesn't mean anything. His eyes are open, but it doesn't mean anything. Nothing has changed."

When the doctor finished his examination and left the room, the nurse, my friend and God's comforter, took my hand, looked me in the eyes and said, "It does means something. It means that his eyes were closed, and now they are open. And that is a good thing."

It was a good thing.

But it was also a very painful thing.

When Ethan's eyes were closed, we knew he couldn't see us. No one would expect to be seen by someone whose eyes are closed. But with his eyes opened, we hoped, and expected, that he would see us. We expected him to know us like we knew him.

The feeling of not being recognized by my child was a hurt I cannot describe.

For months I would get in Ethan's face and stare into his beautiful blue-green eyes. I was determined that I was going to make him see me.

There were times when the nurses questioned if Ethan was becoming aware of his surroundings. They wondered if he was coming back. They so wanted to see a miracle. They watched as we stood in front of him. Would he track with his eyes? Would he respond to light? Was there any recognition? Just a little?

There never was.

I don't know if it was my pride, or just a mother's heart, but I always felt like if Ethan was going to know anyone, if he was going to respond to anyone, it was going to be me.

I knew him nine months before anyone else. I felt his life first. He "breathed" with me. His first heartbeat, beat inside of me. He was my baby. He would know his momma.

But he didn't.

For 4 months, he looked at me, but he didn't know me.

How long has Jesus stood in front of the very ones He created and waited to be seen? How many times has He done everything He could possibly do to make himself known? How much love has He poured out? Hasn't He given all he had to give? How much suffering did He endure to be seen? How much humiliation and scorn did He subject Himself to, just so He could give to the ones that didn't want Him? How great the hurt when His children see all He has created for them but they still don't see Him?

I wonder if I had lived when Jesus walked this earth, and if I had come face to face with Him, would I have seen Him. Would I have known Him?

Would I just have been one that was following the crowd, looking for some drama, wanting to see a few miracles here and there? Would I have been one that wore the "tee-shirt" and talked and wrote about what I had seen, only to disappear when I saw Jesus carrying His cross?

Would I have seen Him?

Would I have known Him?

It took me a long time to see Jesus. Years in Sunday School. Years teaching it. Singing in the choir. Reading Bible stories. Doing for Jesus. And I didn't see Him.

I didn't know Him.

The pain that it must have caused Him.

It's Christmas, and we Christians are sometimes angry or frustrated because people choose to say "Happy Holidays" and "Season's Greetings" instead of "Merry Christmas."

We get angry or frustrated when atheists put up billboards mocking the Christian slogan "Jesus is the Reason for the Season." We are fed up with the use of "X-mas." E-mail after e-mail exhorts us to do something about it.

I heard someone on television last night, someone who thinks he's a comedian, making jokes about Christians wanting Christ to be remembered at Christmas. I was sickened and disgusted.

We may get angry or frustrated by what we hear and what we see at Christmas. We may feel sickened or disgusted by what others say, or don't say about our Savior and Redeemer. Our pride may rise up when we are ridiculed or not respected for our beliefs.

Jesus is Christmas. Jesus is The Celebration. Jesus is The Reason. We want to make it right and we feel helpless and defeated when we can't.

We Christians feel so much, don't we?

I think, maybe in the smallest, most human sense, I have an idea of what Jesus feels at Christmas.

What Jesus has felt since the very beginning.

Hurt.

The hurt of not being known, of not being seen by the very ones He created. The ones He who knew no sin, became sin for, so that they might become the righteousness of God and live forever.

Lord, keep my eyes open. Help me to know You more and more. Open the eyes of those who do not see You. Who do not know You. Open the eyes of those who ridicule You and who love your gifts and not You, The Giver. May Your Light shine bright this Christmas so the blind will see in their darkness and so that every heart will sing . . .

"Holy, holy, holy. The Lord God Almighty. Who was and is and is to come."

"You are worthy, O Lord, to receive glory and honor and power; for You created all things, and by Your will they exist and were created."

"You are worthy to take the scroll, and to open its seals. For You were slain, and have redeemed us to God by Your blood."

"Worthy is the Lamb who was slain to receive power and riches and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and blessing!"

"Blessing and honor and glory and power be to Him who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb, forever and ever."

Be blessed this "Christ season" as you see and sing!

Love,
Cheri




(Praises from the book of Revelation, chapter 4 and 5)

INCARNATION

from The Jesus I Never Knew

by Philip Yancey

"I learned about incarnation when I kept a salt-water aquarium. Management of a marine aquarium, I discovered, is no easy task. I had to run a portable chemical laboratory to monitor the nitrate levels and the ammonia content. I pumped in vitamins and antibiotics and sulfa drugs and enough enzymes to make a rock grow. I filtered the water through glass fibers and charcoal, and exposed it to ultraviolet light. You would think, in view of all the energy expended on their behalf, that my fish would at least be grateful. Not so. Every time my shadow loomed above the tank they dove for cover into the nearest shell. They showed me one "emotion" only: fear. Although I opened the lid and dropped in food on a regular schedule, three times a day, they responded to each visit as a sure sign of my designs to torture them. I could not convince them of my true concern.

To my fish I was deity. I was too large for them, my actions too incomprehensible. My acts of mercy they saw as cruelty; my attempts at healing they viewed as destruction. To change their perceptions, I began to see, would require a form of incarnation. I would have to become a fish and "speak" to them in a language they could understand.

A human being becoming a fish is nothing compared to God becoming a baby. And yet according to the Gospels that is what happened in Bethlehem. The God who created matter took shape within it, as an artist might become a spot on a painting or a playright a character within his own play. God wrote a story, only using real characters, on the pages or real history. The Word become flesh."

For way too long I was just like the fish in the tank. No matter what God did...no matter how He blessed me or took care of me...I was afraid of Him. And whenever I heard Him call me. Whenever I felt His nearness...I would run. I would try to hide. I would try to pretend He wasn't there.

How sad it makes me to think of the way that must have hurt Him. For Him to have sent His Son for me. To have loved me with an ever-lasting love. All the blessings. All the care. I misunderstood it all. I was afraid of Him.

Yet, when I had no where else to run, I ran to Him. And His grace took all my fears away.

In my head, I had always believed in the Trinity. I knew the verses that spoke of Jesus being God in the flesh. But, I didn't know it in my heart. The fear blinded me to the truth that Jesus is the exact image of God. God shows all of Himself, all of His glory, all in His Son.

Jesus. The One that loved His mother and His friends. The One that loved to spend time with the misfits and the outcasts. The One that went out of His way to talk to a scorned woman at a well. The One that gave sight to the blind and told the crippled to get up and walk. The One that cried as his friends experienced grief. The One that told stories to His followers so they could understand things too great for human minds. The One that spoke with the authority of the King of the Universe and said not to fear Him in the same breath. The One that was never surprised by anyone's sin and never rejected anyone because of it. The One that was more concerned about His disciple that denied Him than the pain He was going to face. The One that watched His creation ridicule Him, torture Him, and reject Him. And, then He asked the Father to have compassion and mercy on them. I could go on and on.

This is God. The God I feared.

Yes. God sent His Son for our redemption. For our reconciliation. To give us eternal life with Him.

But, He also sent Jesus so we could see Him. So, we would know exactly what He was like. So we would stop running. So we would stop being afraid. So we would stop thinking of Him as our tormentor. So... we would know the love He has for us.

So He left heaven and stepped into a world that He knew all too well. He knew all the ugliness, the vileness and all the awful things that men and women do to each other. He came knowing what to expect. And, we didn't let Him down, did we? The human race showed Him all the pain, humiliation, and rejection it could muster up. He knew we would. And He came anyway.

I'm thankful that I live on this side of Christmas. That I live at a time in history where I don't have to guess what God is like.

My heart has much regret for wasting so many opportunities to spend time with Jesus. Time wasted on things that didn't matter. But, my heart is also filled with excitement that His mercies are new every morning, and that He is always near for those that call.

Billy Graham's daughter wrote a book called, Just Give Me Jesus. And, that is exactly the gift I want this Christmas morning. Jesus.

I really do just want Jesus.

"And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us,

and we beheld His glory,

the glory as of the only begotten of the Father,
full of grace and truth."

John 1:16

picture from salt-water aquarium guide.com

GIFTS

One of the best gifts I've ever received... was my big sister!

WHEN SANTA CAME TO TOWN

FATHER JULIEN

One morning, when Ethan was in the ICU in Gainesville, we decided to leave him long enough to go down to the cafeteria and try to eat a hot breakfast. As the elevator doors opened, we were met by Santa and his helper. A life-sized gingerbread man. They were way too happy and I wanted to slap them.

Yes. I just said, "I wanted to slap them."

I had held it in long enough.

I was sick of the Christmas decorations. I was sick of the Grand Piano in the lobby and the Christmas carols I heard coming from it. I was sick of the beautiful red bows and wreaths that decorated the halls. I was sick of the nurses in their cute little Christmas smocks. I was sick of Christmas.

How could people celebrate? How could people go on like nothing had happened? My life was falling apart! The celebrations continued to build. Everyday, the excitement was growing. Our lives seemed to have stopped, and everyone else's lives were continuing on.

And I was mad. I was really mad.

Just a few days before, I was planning for the greatest Christmas ever. We had a lot to celebrate.

In March of that year, I had surgery on my brain to remove a tumor. The neurosurgeon told me I had a 50/50 chance that it would be malignant. He also told me that because of the location of the tumor, that I might not be able to communicate when I woke up in the recovery room. But, with speech therapy and a lot of hard work, my speech would probably come back. He also told me, after the surgery, that because the tumor had grown deeper into my brain than he had expected, that there was a chance I would have seizures. He didn't want to put me on seizure medications because he didn't want to mask anything. He did, however, want me to have someone with me at all times for the next six weeks. Just in case.

Well, the tumor was benign. I could talk after surgery. I never had a seizure. And, I survived having someone with me all the time for six weeks.

Seth graduated from the University of Florida that May and received the news in August that he had been accepted into the law school at UF. He would begin law school in January.

Ethan was working at a nursery outside of Gainesville. He seemed to be doing so well. He enjoyed working with the two young men that had started the business, and he really enjoyed being outside. At work, Jim would answer the phone with his name and then his office name, "Plans and Programs." Ethan started to answer his phone with, "This is Ethan, pansies and petunias." He would call me at lunch almost everyday to tell me how beautiful the sky was. He would say, "Mom, it's the most beautiful color of blue." He loved being outside. He had been to some career fairs and had narrowed down what he wanted to major in when he started at UF as a junior. His two requirements for any career would be that... 1. He didn't have to work too closely with people and 2. He could be outside.

We really did have a lot to celebrate.

The day before Ethan was injured, Jim, Seth and I went to pick up our Christmas tree. We decorated it that night while Seth watched the SEC championship and ate chili. The dining room was full of all the Christmas decorations Jim had gotten down from the attic. I just wanted everything done early. The decorations. The shopping. The baking. I wanted to have nothing but free time to spend with the boys when Ethan got home for the holidays.

If your kids have moved out of the house or gone away to college, you know there is nothing like having them home. When they are home, in their own bed, it's like a holiday. Actually, it's like every holiday rolled into one. As the boys got older, I realized the day might be coming when they couldn't be home for Christmas. Or, maybe, not be home at the same time.

I was going to take advantage of this Christmas and do it right!!!


But less than 24 hours after decorating the tree, nothing was right.

There I was, standing in an open elevator with a laughing Santa and a ridiculously-big ginger bread man staring me in the face while my baby was upstairs hanging on to life. A life that we had been told by his doctors would not be worth living.

I hope you don't think I am exaggerating about the hopelessness of Ethan's condition after his injury. One of the reasons I find it so hard to write about that time and the months that were to follow, is because there aren't words to describe it. Any words I try to use...any words I use to draw you a picture of it...seem empty and meaningless. There are no words to describe that time. My sister and I were talking about it the other night and decided that unless you were there...unless you heard the doctors...unless you saw the way the nurses looked at us...unless you heard the machines that were working to keep Ethan alive... there's no way you could understand the despair and the hopelessness. We weren't in a hospital waiting for someone to get better. To get well. To go home. We were just there. Going through the motions. Barely hanging-on.

I was reading God's Word. I was praying. I was seeking Him. I so desperately wanted to trust Him. I felt His presence. But my heart was broken. I was past controlling what I was feeling. I felt myself becoming consumed with anger and resentment.

I don't do anger well. I never have.

My anger was beginning to spill out on to others. And, I hated that. Yet, as hard as I tried to keep it to myself... I couldn't.

The general practitioner assigned to Ethan's case, passed me in the hall... right after my encounter with Santa and his helper. I guess he noticed my demeanor and he asked if anything was wrong. Wrong question! My child was in ICU, being kept alive with a ventilator. I've been told that he will never wake up... that he will never know me. And this guy, a doctor, is asking me if anything is wrong. I'm sure after I got through telling him what was wrong, he wished he had never asked.

When I had a chance to go back to the motel and be alone, I let it all come out. I told God exactly how I felt. I told Him exactly how unfair it was that Ethan was hurt. That he was hurt at Christmas. That the pain and the loss would have been the same regardless of whatever time of the year it was, but, with it being Christmas it was like pouring salt into a wound. Why didn't I get to have my Christmas. Christmas with my boys. And, then I started to cry. I told him that I didn't really hate Santa and his ginger bread helper. That I really did want the doctors and nurses who had been so kind to us, to have a wonderful Christmas. That I really did want people to enjoy their families and their celebrations. But, I wanted it for myself, too. I wanted to have Christmas with my family.

And, as I poured my heart out to Him, I became undone. I was broken, guilty, and sorry. And, somehow I became free of it. Free of the anger.

That's when He reminded me that, without Christmas, I would have no hope. Without Christmas I wouldn't be able to receive strength from the Father. I wouldn't know His comfort. I wouldn't have any promises to hang on to. He reminded me that, because God had sent His Son to bridge the gap between a Holy God and a sinful world... a sinful me, I could talk to Him. And... I could receive His grace. He reminded me that the only reason the words in the Bible had spoken to me...the only reason I could pray...the only reason I had felt any comfort at all... was because of Jesus. Jesus. The One in the manger. The Reason for Christmas.

I knew His words were true. His light was shining in my darkness. I asked forgiveness for my anger, and I vowed to take His words with me as I went back to the hospital. I would take them with me as I walked in a world that was planning for the greatest celebration of the year.


Several days later, I was in Ethan's room alone. I was standing beside him, looking at how beautiful he was, when a nurse came to the door and told me that there was a priest that would like to come in and say a prayer for Ethan. I just shook my head no. I was so tired of strangers. I was so tired of talking... I just wanted to be alone with Ethan. But, as soon as I shook my head no, I knew I could never turn down a prayer for Ethan. So, I walked out into the hall and motioned to her that it was okay to send the priest into Ethan's room.

I went back to stand beside Ethan's bed, and Father Julien walked in. During the days we had been in Gainesville, many of the hospital's chaplains had come in to encourage us and to pray with us. Each one had been a blessing. But, I had never seen Father Julien. He wore a red sweater with his white collar and a black blazer. He came and stood beside me.

And for the longest time, he didn't say a word. He just looked at Ethan and then he began to pray. The very first words he said were, "Heavenly Father, what a wonderful time of year it is. Thank you for Christmas. Thank you that because of Christmas we can have hope. Hope for Ethan. Hope for this family." Father Julien was repeating basically the same words that God had spoken to me in the motel room. I don't remember anything else he said.

Hope. Because of Christmas. That's all I heard.


And I knew right then, that God had sent Father Julien to verify, to confirm, what He had spoken to me. He knew that I would need to know that this was truly a message from Him. God wanted me to know that He was well aware that Ethan had been hurt at Christmas. And, that the timing of it all... the timing that seemed to be salt being poured into a wound... was really a gift.

Every red bow I saw. Every Christmas smock I saw on a nurse. Every song I heard played on the piano when I walked through the lobby. Every holiday plan I heard being discussed by others... even Santa and his helper. They would all be reminders of the baby in the manger. The Baby that was sent to reconcile me with the Father. The Lamb of God. Sent so I would never be alone. So I would know His strength and His comfort. So I would have hope.

I wondered for a while if Father Julien was real. Maybe I had imagined him. Maybe he was just an angel.

However, last December when Seth graduated from law school in Gainesville, we saw Father Julien again. Jim was determined to find him. He called Alachua General Hospital to see if Father Julien was on call. He wasn't. After being put on hold several times, Jim was finally able to find the name of his parish. We weren't sure where it was, or if he would even be there, but Jim was determined to find him.

We found his church, and Ethan and I stayed in the car while Jim went to find him. Sunday services were over, but Jim was hopeful we would find him. He went into the sanctuary, and they said Father Julien was next door in his office. He was getting ready for a Christmas party for the children of prisoners at a state prison outside of Gainesville. He was going about the Father's business.

Jim found him and introduced himself, and told him about his visit with me four years before. At first I'm not sure he remembered us. But he came out to the car, and he knelt down beside Ethan's open car door. And he remembered coming to see Ethan. Then he placed his hand on Ethan's forehead, and made the sign of the cross, and prayed for Ethan again. He prayed that Ethan would know the Father, to know Him in all His fullness.

And, as Father Julien left us and walked back inside to get ready for a Christmas celebration, I knew that he truly was an angel. He was my Christmas angel.

Christmas isn't family. Christmas isn't gifts or baking or doing nice things for our neighbors. Christmas isn't traditions or a tree or decorations. Christmas isn't a time of year or a holiday.

Christmas is Hope.

Christmas is Jesus.

"May the God of Hope

fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit."

Romans 15:13

THE CHRISTMAS PROGRAM

Yesterday I thought about Christmas programs.

I had to take my car to the dealership for some minor service and on the way, I passed the preschool where I taught for 16 years. I smiled as I thought about all the Christmas programs. All 16 of them! The costumes, the practices, kids falling off the risers, the pulling-out of my hair, hearing the kids sing... those are all good memories.

Then my sister called and she was on her way to see my great nephew (and he is definitely great) in his little Christmas program. I would have loved to have been there. He was playing a wise man. He's so precious just sitting on the floor playing. How precious he must have been as a singing wise man!

I thought about the Christmas programs that Seth and Ethan had been in. And my mind got stuck on Ethan's first grade program. That year the four first grade classes combined for the program. The teachers sent a note home explaining how they had little time for practice and how important good behavior would be. They had come up with a point system. If a child misbehaved, was disruptive, etc., they would receive a point. Too many points and they couldn't be in the program.

I understood, but was horrified at the same time. Banning kids from a Christmas program? Being a little too excited? Misbehaving a little? Isn't that normal for kids at Christmas?

But like I said, I understood where they were coming from and stressed to Ethan how important it was for him to listen and to be respectful of his teachers.

It's not like Ethan had ever misbehaved at school. He hadn't. But, I knew the potential was there. And, with Ethan, I had learned not to be surprised! I was a little worried, and being the little-bit-obsessive mother I could be - I can hear my sister laughing as she reads the phrase"little-bit"- everyday when I would pick Ethan up from school, I would ask him if he had gotten any points. Everyday he said no.

I was a proud momma.

The day of the Christmas program, Jim and I got there early to get a good seat. Imagine my horror when Ethan filed into the cafeteria and up on the risers and I saw his little red, tear-stained face. Although he wasn't crying anymore, his little bottom lip was still quivering.

His teacher, Mrs. S., looked over at me and mouthed, "Everything is Okay. He's alright." Then she took her hands and patted them down in the air. Like, "Trust me lady. Don't go running up there and make a scene. I've got it under control." So, I didn't make a scene. I tried to get my heart rate down and I put a huge smile on my face. I kept smiling at Ethan. I was now the one mouthing, "It's Okay. Everything is alright." I begged him to sing. Just to sing. And, he finally did. He eventually sang his heart out.

When the program was over and we walked to Ethan's classroom, his teacher met me on the outside ramp. I think she sensed there was a mother tiger looking for blood. Mrs.S. told me that there had been a misunderstanding and one of the other first grade teachers, a young, new teacher, had told Ethan he couldn't be in the program. When Mrs. S. heard Ethan crying she asked what had happened. Mrs. S. took the new teacher aside and said that Ethan would be in the program, and then she put him back in line. Mrs. S. assured me that she had handled it, and it had truly been a misunderstanding. She never gave me the details and, without saying it out right, I knew she was asking me to just let it go. And, I did.

Hey, I had been a young new teacher at one time.

There's been lots of times when I have felt like I've been kicked out of line. Times when I've felt like I don't get to be in the program. Or play in the game. Times when I don't have the right to sing. The right to participate. The right to share.

Because I have too many points. Points I've received for messing up. Points for not trusting. Points for becoming depressed and losing hope. Points for being a cry-baby. Points for being ungrateful.

Points for missing signs. For not protecting my child. Points for misrepresenting God to my children. For teaching them things about Him that just aren't true. Points for wasting so much time on things that won't last. On things that aren't eternal.

Points for saying one thing but living another.

Points. Points. Points.

Out of the program. Out of chances.

Watching from a distance. Standing back. Feeling excluded. Observing instead of participating.

Knowing I have deserved every point I've been given. My points weren't given because of a misunderstanding. I earned every one. Some were earned because I was blind. Some because I was weak. But most because I just wanted to do things my way instead of His.

But just like Mrs. S. heard Ethan's cry, God hears mine.

And, He steps up and says, "Put her back in line. She's mine. She gets to play. She gets to participate."

"But what about all the points I earned? You know. For this and that. Remember?"

And He says, "What points? I don't remember any points? You have points? I don't think so."

"I laid all those points on my only beloved Son. He payed the price for all of them. Those points and all the ones you will earn in the future are gone. They're cast into the sea. Removed as far as the east is from the west. You, my child, are "point-less" and you always will be. Your account says, "The penalty for your points has already been paid. Paid in full. And don't let yourself, or anyone else, ever try to convince you that you can't play. That you can't be in the program. Your part in the program was established long before the foundation of the world was laid."

He says to me. "It's Okay. Everything is alright. I've got it under control. Your part is to sing."

"Just to sing."

Thank you, Mrs. S. for putting Ethan back in the program.




Thank you Jesus for leaving heaven, for coming to earth, for paying the price for my points.

So I can be in the program.

So I can sing!

The Faith-o-Meter

Have you seen the movie "The Elf"?

Santa is found in Central Park with a broken-down sleigh.

The rocket boosters have fallen off his sleigh and the only way the sleigh can fly is by Christmas Spirit.

The sleigh is able to fly when "Santa's Spirit Meter" registers Christmas Spirit on the ground.

The sleigh hops around for a while through Central Park.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

But, then the people catch on and they start singing.

And, as they sing, their spirit rises and so does the sleigh.

Santa is off on his way.

I've been wondering what it would be like to have a "Faith-o-Meter."

One that measures my faith.

A meter that tells me if I'm trusting in what I can see or what I can't see.

One that measures if my faith is in God Himself or in what I see Him doing in my life.

I know God doesn't need a "Faith-o-Meter."

He sees my heart.

Unfortunately, my faith wouldn't register very high on the "Faith-o-Meter" right now...and, I'm certainly not flying.

It's just one of those times when I have to ask myself, "In whom do I believe and do I believe that He is really able?"

I'm thankful that ..."When I am faithless, that He remains faithful. That He cannot deny Himself." 2 Timothy 2:13

Now, I think I'll go sing a while.