Hello Team –
It’s Christmas Eve again at the farm. My aunts are visiting this afternoon, keeping my mom entertained while dad putters around in the barn. I’m upstairs in the corner bedroom, laptop open, and I am again flexing my writing muscles. I hope you’ll indulge me…
“Milestone days” like this often lead a person to times of quiet, where a reckoning is taken of where we have been and where we are going. Most of you know by now that the landscape of my life has changed radically over the past few months with the loss of my brother to lung cancer. A year ago at about this time, I was busy preparing dinner in anticipation of Rob’s arrival with his wife (I cooked and they cleaned – that was the deal). The shock and pain of his passing have largely subsided, but the much more strenuous work of adjusting life to this new reality – and discovering again what “normal” looks like – has just begun.
Just past midnight on that rainy October day, I sat in the crook of my brother’s legs as he breathed his last. Later that morning, I told my parents that they had lost their son. And in a strange turn of events suitable for a Faulkner novel, I stood beside my best friend that afternoon as he and his bride exchanged wedding vows. It felt like God was telling me that day that I would begin a new chapter in my life; one where there would be more funerals and fewer weddings.
Engaging with that reality can be exhausting. It often makes me feel as thin and tired as the light of the winter sun coming through my window. A lot of the time, I would rather just shut down and not feel the pain so keenly. And in moments like this, I am faced with a choice: live in the smallness and ache of my story, or lean into God to see how my story fits into his.
We are celebrating his ancient story right now. It began, like all of the stories penned by God, in distant millennia past. It was foretold by social contrarians and outcasts, often mixed with an unpopular message of national repentance or destruction. And then came four hundred years of utter silence, and the mouths of the prophets were closed. Lands were conquered by foreign powers; and the earth, as it had for generations, continued to hemorrhage stories of tragedy and suffering. And in the din of human anguish, a human heart began to beat in a backwater Roman province. This was no ordinary heart, however, for the blood that it pumped had been set aside to eventually redeem the stories of every broken life.
Rumors of this extraordinary child continued over the centuries, many of them whispered in dark rooms with shutters closed against empires that would see that story erased from history. Ideas that previously made no sense found their form: that somehow this God, who for so long had seemed so distant, became flesh and made his dwelling among us. This God-man, this often-misunderstood Rabbi, affected lives so profoundly that many put pen to paper and wrote of their encounters with him. All through those writings and the volumes of scholarly commentary that followed over the centuries, one quiet but persistent message of hope emerged: God lives – love others.
Sitting in my now-darkening room, as an owl greets the setting sun and the tree branches on the hill cross like lines of ink over a russet sky, I hold on to that hope like a jewel. Hope forces us to remain vulnerable, to stay open to the idea of a loving God, who stepped down from glory and wrapped himself in our flesh to save our lives. Out of the hope that God lives, we are called to allow him to re-make our lives and use the hurt to connect with others. And in the process, all can be healed. God lives – love others.
Each of you, in your own way, have heeded that call. Life and the world strive to break our hearts, and yet we are asked to be God’s hands and feet and continue to be available to love others. Despite the discomfort, there is an adventure to be had here. God has a crazy love for his people. I hope you will take the time amid the noise of the season to simply remain quiet and be loved by him. Rest, and be refreshed by that reality. And then by that reality, let us come together in the New Year and continue to change the world.
I give God thanks for all that you do, and wish you all the best for Christmas.
~ Chris
Christmas Greetings from the Farm
Hello Team –
It’s Christmas Eve again at the farm. My aunts are visiting this afternoon, keeping my mom entertained while dad putters around in the barn. I’m upstairs in the corner bedroom, laptop open, and I am again flexing my writing muscles. I hope you’ll indulge me…
“Milestone days” like this often lead a person to times of quiet, where a reckoning is taken of where we have been and where we are going. Most of you know by now that the landscape of my life has changed radically over the past few months with the loss of my brother to lung cancer. A year ago at about this time, I was busy preparing dinner in anticipation of Rob’s arrival with his wife (I cooked and they cleaned – that was the deal). The shock and pain of his passing have largely subsided, but the much more strenuous work of adjusting life to this new reality – and discovering again what “normal” looks like – has just begun.
Just past midnight on that rainy October day, I sat in the crook of my brother’s legs as he breathed his last. Later that morning, I told my parents that they had lost their son. And in a strange turn of events suitable for a Faulkner novel, I stood beside my best friend that afternoon as he and his bride exchanged wedding vows. It felt like God was telling me that day that I would begin a new chapter in my life; one where there would be more funerals and fewer weddings.
Engaging with that reality can be exhausting. It often makes me feel as thin and tired as the light of the winter sun coming through my window. A lot of the time, I would rather just shut down and not feel the pain so keenly. And in moments like this, I am faced with a choice: live in the smallness and ache of my story, or lean into God to see how my story fits into his.
We are celebrating his ancient story right now. It began, like all of the stories penned by God, in distant millennia past. It was foretold by social contrarians and outcasts, often mixed with an unpopular message of national repentance or destruction. And then came four hundred years of utter silence, and the mouths of the prophets were closed. Lands were conquered by foreign powers; and the earth, as it had for generations, continued to hemorrhage stories of tragedy and suffering. And in the din of human anguish, a human heart began to beat in a backwater Roman province. This was no ordinary heart, however, for the blood that it pumped had been set aside to eventually redeem the stories of every broken life.
Rumors of this extraordinary child continued over the centuries, many of them whispered in dark rooms with shutters closed against empires that would see that story erased from history. Ideas that previously made no sense found their form: that somehow this God, who for so long had seemed so distant, became flesh and made his dwelling among us. This God-man, this often-misunderstood Rabbi, affected lives so profoundly that many put pen to paper and wrote of their encounters with him. All through those writings and the volumes of scholarly commentary that followed over the centuries, one quiet but persistent message of hope emerged: God lives – love others.
Sitting in my now-darkening room, as an owl greets the setting sun and the tree branches on the hill cross like lines of ink over a russet sky, I hold on to that hope like a jewel. Hope forces us to remain vulnerable, to stay open to the idea of a loving God, who stepped down from glory and wrapped himself in our flesh to save our lives. Out of the hope that God lives, we are called to allow him to re-make our lives and use the hurt to connect with others. And in the process, all can be healed. God lives – love others.
Each of you, in your own way, have heeded that call. Life and the world strive to break our hearts, and yet we are asked to be God’s hands and feet and continue to be available to love others. Despite the discomfort, there is an adventure to be had here. God has a crazy love for his people. I hope you will take the time amid the noise of the season to simply remain quiet and be loved by him. Rest, and be refreshed by that reality. And then by that reality, let us come together in the New Year and continue to change the world.
I give God thanks for all that you do, and wish you all the best for Christmas.
~ Chris