Christmas time brings so much beauty.
Beauty in the landscape--bare, silent, frosty mornings that make us beg for the cozy warmth of thick blankets and hot chocolate. In the lights that twinkle and signal happiness down most streets. In the warm window lights when passing homes in the evening, allowing passersby to steal glimpses of their neighbors' trees, their excitement, their memories, their joy.
Beauty in the way we reach out to others. There are food and clothing drives, angel trees and Operation Christmas Child. We tend to feel more charitable. We take time for family and friends to celebrate our love for one another.
Beauty in the sounds--the jingle bells in the background of every radio song. A Christmas tune on the lips of most, for they've been hearing them since the day after Thanksgiving.
It really does feel like the most wonderful time of the year, but I only really look forward to it every other year. One of the hardest things about being divorced is that I only get to spend half of my Christmases with my daughter. And while we make the most of what time we have leading up to the big day, there is a void left when she isn't there on the 24th and the 25th. When I can't tuck her in and tell her excited little spirit to calm down so Santa can come. When she isn't next to me for the Christmas Eve candlelight service in her pretty Christmas dress. When there isn't a pile of unrecognizably designed Christmas cookies, where she got bored with decorating and decided to just lick all of the frosting out of their containers. When there's an empty spot on the floor where we open our gifts on Christmas morning. I am so blessed with wonderful family and traditions, but no matter what I have surrounding me, if she isn't there, it doesn't quite feel complete.
It sucks. I've been dreading this December for months now because I knew it would be hard. Some days, I can talk myself through it, that it could always be worse, and then other days, I give in and throw myself a pity party. I'll cry or be angry and ruminate how none of it was my choice to ever be separated from her, how it isn't fair. I'll get mad at God sometimes, unfairly so.
But even when I'm mad at God, I still want Him to teach me something because I never want feeling this way to be for naught. And while He's allowed me to make loads of Christmas memories to carry me through until she leaves tomorrow for almost two weeks, last night, He finally started to give me a lesson to take with me when she's gone.
I went to hear some dear friends, Jon and Valerie Guerra, perform some of their Christmas music the other night. They are wildly talented, and I've enjoyed getting to watch them grow and evolve over the last few years while Brooks has managed them. One night last year, while they were staying at our house, they played us a song they had written called, "Lord, Remind Me." From the moment I heard it, God greatly impressed some of the lyrics on my heart, and every time I listen to them sing it, the freshness is still there with which I receive its message. And on Friday night when they performed it, God allowed the chorus and the bridge to teach my heart how to keep moving through this anticipated holiday.
~~
Lord, remind me
Lord, remind me
That the shepherds heard the angels break the silence in the field
That the wise men found a baby and they could not help but kneel
That the One who heard our weeping became a child in a manger sleeping
Lord, remind me
Cause it's Christmas, and I want to remember
Tell me how He loves me
Tell me how He wants me
Tell me the story like I've never heard before
And I'll sing it like the angels
Sing it with my whole heart
Sing it to Him who's worth a thousand songs and more
Glory in the highest
Glory in the lowest
Glory that shines when nothing seems to shine at all
Glory in the highest
Glory in the lowest
Emmanuel
~~
I remember the first time I heard Jon sing "glory in the lowest" at our house and thinking, huh. All we ever sing at Christmas time is about giving glory to God in the highest. It speaks to His magnificence and splendor, His greatness and position over us. Glory to God in the highest!
But then--glory in the lowest, too.
The phrase was so unexpected, and I sat and pondered it for several minutes. Glory in the lowest? At first, I took it to mean that we give glory to God on high in the heavens and also glory to the tiny baby in the manger--the lowliest way He could have possibly come to us.
I began to wonder if maybe Mary, sore and pained from labor, looked at the muck and grime around her, peered at her perfect new Son lying in a feeding bin, then turned toward heaven and said, "Really?? Is this the best you can do, God?" Was she disappointed, or did she feel like complaining that God had selected this disgusting setting for the birth of His Son? Did she, if even momentarily, focus on how God had done His miracle instead of the miracle itself?
And as I pictured myself sitting in the hay alongside the Lord's tired new mother, I honed in on the manger. The cradle that heralded Jesus. No, it wasn't good enough, not even for a regular baby. But here was how God was making His impact. By meeting the world in the lowest. In a single wooden manger, God had managed to speak volumes--how great He is that He can make even a dirty barn lovely and purposeful, and yet that He is not too great to join us in the mud and manure.
God gave me a little nudge. Stop concentrating on the manger.
What?
The manger. The way I choose to come to you. Stop looking at the manger. Look at Me.
And I realized, that's exactly my problem.
You see, God drew near to me and presented himself to me most visibly in my divorce. My divorce is my manger. The ugly, crude, splintered backdrop that seemed out of place for anything wonderful to happen. And yet, it was. It was the very thing that caused me to bend my knees. To fall at His feet, to understand what I couldn't before.
It brought Him to me and me to Him.
And the painful facet of being separated from Harlow every other Christmas (and other times) also serves as a manger. Anytime it gets uncomfortable, anytime it doesn't make sense. Anytime it feels so low--that's when He shows up again.
The manger--how He chooses to draw near to me--it matters, but it doesn't. It matters in that it's very telling in what it takes for us to pay attention to Him. But yet, it really doesn't matter how He comes. It only matters that He does.
That He left the highest so that we don't have to be alone in the lowest. That He gets uncomfortable right along with us. And when she leaves tomorrow for the longest stretch of time we've had to be apart, I sense that He's nestling in the hay beside me.
Like the wonders of the night sky that get drowned out by the lights of a city, God knows we tend to need darkness for us to see Him most clearly. That, like the song says, He might shine when nothing seems to shine at all.
Maybe your manger isn't really present at Christmas. Maybe it's in the spring or the summer, or maybe you haven't quite come to a manger yet. But sooner or later, He tends to invite you to a barn so that He can offer Himself to you. Sometimes the manger seems really big, and Jesus can feel really small. But I pray that no matter the setting, you will find yourself able to move past how He chooses to come and look inside at what He's trying to show you.
He's here.
Lord, remind me.
He's here in the highest.
Lord, remind me.
He's here in the lowest.
Lord, remind me to give glory either way.
For it's Christmas, my heart is quiet, the void is there.
And I want to remember.
