I love the God who creates the seasons. The God whose breath blows the summer breeze upon my face as I lie on the shore of the lake with my family. The God who stirs the autumn wind to send the colored leaves across my lawn. The God who shakes the sky until the winter snowflakes fall thick and glorious on my daughter's eyelashes. And the God who whispers to the earth to wake up from its slumber until the spring flowers poke their heads out of the ground.
He is the same yesterday, today, and forever, and yet He authors change so beautifully.
And today, as I stand upon one year's closing credits and peek into next year's cover page, I am grateful again for the way He writes the seasons of my life. On my own, I probably wouldn't choose for things to change. I wouldn't want to leave the warm predictability of the present for the uncertainties of the unknown. But, when He leads me there, I can welcome it. Who else is for me, if not Him? Who else can I trust, if not Him?
So, I step from one year into the next, my face lifted to the Heavens. And I wait for the breath.
Ways to welcome the new year and its changes:
- Journal the biggest changes that occured in your life in the past year and give thanks.
- Read Isaiah 55 and pray about what God would like to speak to you through it.
- Sit down with the loved ones in your home and write 3-5 goals you have for your family in the new year.
- Make a list of financial goals with your spouse for the coming year. See this article for some good ideas.
- Ask the Lord to lead you to a verse to define the next year of your life. Write it down and put it in a place you will see it often. Memorize it. Pray over it.
- Buy a new devotional book and start it on the first day of your new year.
- Place an empty notebook beside your bed. Begin every morning and end every day by asking the Lord if He has anything to tell you. Write down what He says.
"I am the Lord's servant," Mary answered. "May it be to me as you have said." (Luke 1:38)
It's probably because I'm a woman, but when I think of the miracle of the Savior's birth, I think a lot about Mary. And I can't help but imagine how it must have felt to have your normal, village life turned upside down by the Almighty God in the space of a few moments, never to be the same again.
She was just a girl. A girl in a sleepy town. A girl with shy eyes cast upon a simple carpenter. A girl who was known for goodness and kindness. The kind of girl mothers hoped their daughters would be like and the kind of girl fathers advised their sons to find.
And then she was pregnant. And everything was different, in the blink of an eye.
And she had to tell the simple carpenter. And she had to endure his disbelief. And even when God changed the carpenter's mind, and he came to support her, they had to bear the weight of an entire village's scorn on their own. And she was no longer that kind of girl. She was now "that kind of girl."
And then, just when it's time to be nesting and getting ready to hold her baby, there is a journey thrust upon them. And the two of them, the carpenter and the girl, set off for a distant city. There will be no familiar village midwife there. There will be no home to rest in built by Joseph's own hands, a retreat from prying eyes. There will be no mother there, no one to advise her in how to nurse a newborn. It will just be the two of them. And a baby.
And yet, when the time comes, and she holds Him in her arms, they are not alone.
The light of a star she has never seen before bathes her baby in His swaddling clothes with light. There are the songs of angels on the air, singing a welcome to her little one. There are shepherds, huddling in awe around the manger Joseph tried his best to clean before she laid their infant in the warmth of the hay.
And I can't help but compare her experience with mine. When I think back fourteen years ago to the very young woman who birthed her firstborn, I remember a pregnancy filled with anxiousness, the kind that wonders if I have what it takes to be a good mother. I remember a nervous husband who stroked my hand and cried because he could do nothing to help my pain. I remember my hair in two braids, looking so young the nurses seemed to think I needed extra advice. I remember desperately needing my mother in the days to follow, so grateful she was there to tell me what to do next.
We are both humans, Mary and I. And we birthed sons. And we have both pondered those experiences deep within the recesses of our hearts. But, the difference is, my son was not being born to save me. He will not grow up to bear the weight of my sin. I won't watch him die upon a cross.
And that, to me, is the miracle of Mary's life. She carried the One who would make her world right again. She birthed the One who would redeem her.
And she didn't have to. She could have said no to the rejection, the agony, the pain of the whole experience. It's true in doing that she would also have missed the joy that would be her reward, but she really could have played it safe when the angel came to give her the news that she had found favor in God's eyes. I think God would have understood if she said no.
But, she didn't. She said yes to God. She said yes, not knowing if Joseph would ever understand. She said yes, not knowing how she would live, how she would provide for the Son of God. She said yes not even understanding why God had chosen to do things this way. She just said yes.
Mary was the only one chosen to birth the Messiah, but she is not the only one who is asked to do the impossible. Every day, God comes to His children. And He tells them they are favored. And He says, "You're not going to understand it all right now, but I have a job for you." And He waits for our answer.
"Yes, Lord. Me, too. Whatever you desire of me. I say yes."
It snowed in West Texas this week, and the beautiful blanket of white lasted for two glorious days. I know it must have been torture for my little ones to go all day in their school building, counting down the hours and then the minutes until they could get home and go out to play in it. As kids who have been raised here all their lives, they understand you have to seize the moment when it comes to snow. You may not see it again until next year, because it doesn't happen often.
We spent twenty minutes digging out in the garage for mittens and scarves and hats. Another couple of minutes were spent actually putting them on. Then, after all the shoes were tugged on and tied, we realized snow could still find a inch or two of skin to freeze between the shoes and the pant legs. So, we took the shoes off, dug around some more for some old soccer socks, and put those on a lot of little legs, pulling them up over the pants to keep out the cold. The shoes went back on, finally, and out all four of my children ran to play.
I snapped some pictures of the snowy football tosses and the attempts at a snowman. I got out the coffee mugs and put some water in the kettle to boil for hot chocolate. I sat down to listen to snow squeals of delight.
And the door opened as my frozen children came back inside.
All that work for one brief party in the backyard. All that mess for ten minutes of joy.
And as I looked at the red faces drinking hot chocolate at the kitchen table, I couldn't be upset, because sometimes joy requires life to get a little messy.
Sometimes joy means we have to put our expectations of perfection on hold for a little while.
Sometimes joy asks us to put down the to-do list and set out on the path that wasn't on our map at all.
Sometimes joy invites us to stop listening to the ticking clock that wants us to be somewhere other than in this moment, holding everything that is precious.
Today, I choose to fling wide the door to joy and welcome it in.
"Come in this house and stay awhile. You can bring your mess in with you."
