When They Took Away My Gods

I open up my Bible and sip down my coffee and I stare at this story, again.  This story that has this ability to rattle my heart. I have read it dozens of times in this last season, and each time it's like looking in a mirror.

A very, um...unflattering mirror.

Sitting within the book of Judges is my story of late. I can't say I remember reading the story before, or perhaps never saw myself as the main character prior, therefore, I comfortably skimmed through it. Now, now the story slashes my heart and spills out my condition.

It's a story I heard from a retreat last April, by a speaker named Jenn Wilkin. (Highly recommend.) Here I was, surrounded by shabby chic decor and hundreds of good 'ol Iowa women.  The retreat smelled of a homecoming for me, as I sat down next to new and old friends I whispered a thanks to the God who leads, and redeems, and who had led Matt and I back to Iowa one year prior. 

The account in Judges speaks of a man named Micah.  Micah lived during a time when everyone made up their own definition of right and wrong, even God's people. Micah had plenty of religion.  He seemed to love it, even.  He had filled his home and his life with it.  He used him money to build himself a entire house of mini-gods, and even bought himself his very own priest.  The perfect strategy to ensure God's blessings on his life.

The problem is that none of this was done in God's design.  Micah, with all of his religion and his idols, and his sure fire plan for success, was packed full of disobedience and pride.

And perhaps he would have taken this lifestyle to the cold grave with him and his story never would have made it into the pages of our Bibles. 

But, often, God's desire to liberate us from idol worship, includes letting something walk through our lives and mess us up a bit.

A group of 600 men from the tribe of Dan marched through Micah's front yard and took his shrine and his mini-gods and even his priest.  They took off with his miniature idols and with it, his plan for the good life. 

Micah caused a scene and chased after the 600 men, who turned to look at Micah and in near-humor questioned him by saying "What is the matter with you?" 

And he said back to them "You have taken away my gods which I made, and the priest, and have gone away and what do I have besides?"

And there I was, unsure when I became the only person in the room.  My heart was pierced and the sin of idolatry was bleeding out.

Mini-gods... personal shrines, idols, my plan for a blessed life.... 

And Jen Wilkin looks right at me (pretty sure.) and asks:

What is it, if it were taken away, that would leave you in a dramatic posture, crying out "What do I have left?!"

I saw the altar of my heart,  by the power of God's Word and his love for me.

My shrine's name was ministry.  The thing I had always done, and loved. 

At a closer look, I saw what this 'shrine of ministry' consisted of:

It was the graven image I wanted for myself.
The golden image I desired for my husband.
The goddess was me.
The priest was the way ministry made me feel more acceptable to God.

If not purpose and reputation, What do I have left?!

If not people's approval, and exciting dreams-turning-reality, What do I have besides?

If you take away my plans and expectations for the good life, What else do I have?

And for the first time since high school youth group (When all our 'idols' was wanting a prom date...), grace has been teaching me about the false gods of my heart, and how they keep me from the freedom Jesus desires for me.

Grown up idols can be tricky. We disguise them, even within the costumes of religion, or benevolence. We place them up high on the mantle of our hearts and keep dust bunnies far from them. We care for them like beloved pets, or houseplants-- feeding and watering the roots of them, allowing them to flourish in our souls.

For those of us in the church, we would never dare have a 12 foot idol that we bow down to in the town square.  But 12 1-foot idols? That we can conceal within our homes? Within our hearts?

Gods that are easier to control than the Living God, I suppose. And so we quietly bend low to restrictive eating, compulsive exercise, precise budgeting or an etched image of having it all together. These dead idols that we fashioned ourselves breed a false security when they are ours, and mood swings when we fear we are losing them.

These mini-gods that I think about more than my Holy God, these selfish goals that I'm convinced will get me where I want to be, they only leave me tired, lonely, and so. very. grouchy.

When did life going my way nudge ahead of loving the God that loved me first?

Often we don't even see our idols until they are taken away. And we find ourselves throwing a royal temper tantrum until someone looks at us, eye brows high and neck straight and they say "What is the matter with you?"

(Someone tell me you have received that look before...Please.)

And our hearts harden a bit more, as we are sure that we are the victim because life took away what was rightly ours.

And the damage becomes evident in the next moment. When I notice that, up on my mantle, there is no longer enough room for the true God. He has been edged out by my handful of lesser gods-my strategies to obtain comfort, success, and security.



The speaker turned her Bible pages ahead to Psalms.

And she begins reading from Psalm 73, the prayer of David.

"What do I have besides?... What do I have left?..."

In my moment of great need, grace rescues me and brings me to the Living God.

David prayed: "Whom have I in heaven but You? And Earth has nothing I desire besides you."

And I more crumble, rather than bow, before His altar. The weight of being delivered, yet again, from my subtle rebellious ways, inhibits me from maintaining poise in that moment.

"Whom have I but you?"

How thankful I am that the Living God is not tame, or predictable, or bending with our every demand!  But He is powerful, He is faithful, and He is true.  And He loves us so very much. When we bow before Him, not to impress Him or earn his favor, but to show our messy need of Him, He is honored, and joy is ours.

To my Sister, There is enough grace for this....

Knees knocking, and voice cracking, it was a humbling opportunity to share some thoughts at my nephew's funeral....

Rach, Amos, I remember your wedding day well.  I remember the bright pink flowers, the chocolate fountain, and the perfect weather. I remember the photographer kept thinking Amos' brother was Amos, and putting him next to Rachel in the pictures.  I remember you both looked gorgeous, especially you Amos. ;)

And I remember was was written on your wedding invitation, a verse from Psalm 34.

"O magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt his name forever."

That was your verse, at a time that overflowed with joy and anticipation. That was stamped on the front of your invitation, like a brand on your heart, summoning this community to watch you live it out.  I can picture that day at Stonebrook Church.  Two very young, and very pure kids, so ready to play house, to do life together.

So many of us were there that day.

And your God was there too. He was there blessing you, and hearing your prayers.  The prayer that you would partner together and magnify Him. As you exchanged vows and sang songs, you promised that from that day on, you would exalt high the name of Jesus.

And how you have done that, Rachel and Amos.

What faithful servants of God you are.  You are both steady, and consistent. You have been faithful to seek Him, to serve Him. You are generous and trusting.  You both stand humbly upon a godly heritage, your faith runs miles deep and wide.  You have been obedient to share the love of Jesus, your front door is always open.  And then God began blessing you with beautiful babies, and as your family was built you obediently committed this slue of boys to their Maker. 

And these are the things you probably imagined, on that altar, right?  Homes, hospitality, pregnant bellies, babies and adventures.

But at that wedding, when your God was there, and his goodness was easily recognized, He knew that there would also be this.  

This loss, this trauma, this nightmare.  In his foresight, he was already pouring out a grace amazing, to prepare you for this ache. As you prayed on that day to magnify him, only He knew what you were soon to experience.

In the last 5 days, the amount of support has been breathtaking. And specifically, a number of people have reached out to you, who have also lost children.  On Saturday, I kinda felt like you were sitting by the computer, waiting for your long time friend, Anna Mortvedt to say something on Facebook.  Because you knew that she, who lost a baby, would bring words of understanding.  While so many of us want so desperately to offer you words that would lift off the crushing weight of this hurt, I and you both knew that because she had experienced this, her words would be a balm to your wound.

And they were.

Rach, Amos, God too understands what it feels like to lose a son.

The God that you have trusted and loved since childhood, he too lost a son.

So He understands.

The God that formed you in your mothers' wombs, and then weaved your lives together as a couple, he can comprehend the very ache of losing a son.

And let me remind you of what you already know.  He lost his son, Jesus, because of his love for you.

God was separated from Jesus, so that we wouldn't have to be.  

He turned away from Jesus, and his cry, so that He could hear our cries.  

He spared not his son from death, so that we could find living hope within death.

Sister, there is enough grace for this.  

The God who loves you guys, and is near to your broken hearts, he is not asking that you act like the super Christians that you are. He is not asking that you pull yourselves together, or perform. He has not set a date that you have to feel like yourselves again.

As Dad always says, "Preach the gospel to yourself." The gospel, the Bible that you both treasure so dearly, is all about freedom.  A freedom-bearing-grace, that invites us not to try to impress God but to dance to the melody of brokenness. So dance together, Rach and Amos.  Allow each other to be a mess, to be real, to move forward slowly.  Give each other the freedom to cry ugly somedays, and weep gracefully on others. Because the God who understands your pain, has even more of himself to give you, when you are so very broken. 

I think of the story of Ruth. When loss was still fresh in her rear view mirror, knew only to be faithful to Naomi, and move forward step by step, to where she knew God was. 

In the next weeks, months, years, when you guys lay together, and the loss is vast, or the depression is heavy, cling to each other. Whisper through your cries to each other "Come, magnify the Lord with me."  

You will exalt his name together.

Mothering One Moment at a Time

Today is it. Our day.

Our day to stand taller, suck in our loosened tummies, and put lip gloss on before church.  This is the day, when our mind's eye views ourselves as we thought we would look as mothers. We will corral our good looking kids around our ankles, and speak in soft tones offering up soul-shaping instructions to our littles.

This is the weekend, where we may feel so love, so encouraged, so affirmed, that we may, for a day, believe that yes.we.can.do. this.  (It packs more punch if you read that s-l-o-w-l-y.)

Hey, we might even shave our legs, grab our mothering flag, stick it in the backyard and claim that we have got this down. We will give each other slow knowing nods at the restaurants as we pass each other, saying "Woman-you. are. awesome."

Maybe the ads and the budding flowers have swept us up in the season.  The season of Mother's Day. Where, for but a weekend, we convince ourselves that we can win at this mothering thing.

Perhaps this mother's day hits you at just the right point in your cycle where your hormones are actually pretty steady, and perhaps your kids have rinsed off in the rain recently so they look clean enough, and you feel yourself summiting this mothering mountain.

You are believing, this weekend, "I can do this." I will conquer.

And what jerk would tell you anything different? I mean, isn't the blog world all about releasing feel-good butterflies out into cyber world?  And aren't mom blogs supposed to be like rainbows? Rainbows of sentences that lead you closer and closer to a pot of gold and a family of unicorns?

Well, weekend of mommying, I'm not falling for you this year.  I'm sorry.  I just can't go there, not this time.  I can't be caught up in the lie that I can win at this thing. I don't want butterflies.  And I don't have time to waste following a rainbow today. And unicorns freak me out.

I need more from you, Mother's Day.  More than a feel good fuzzy that only gets me to lunch time tomorrow.  Which, by the way, will probably be cheap hot dogs, again.

Mother's Day, mothering is just too big of a beast for you to fix. I appreciate the efforts to puff up a bit of weary mommies with encouragement and gifts. But I need more.

It goes without saying, we all have hopes for our careers as moms. We all have hopes and prayers for our children. Most of us share these broader goals-that we would be kind moms, who teach our kids to respect others, and to be honest.

And then our more personal hopes may vary. For me,  I crave to be an intentional mother to teach my children the treasures of the Bible, I want my kids to understand how loved they are by God, and I want to be somewhat fit and funny as I do this.

But more often than not, my day's combined efforts have me nowhere close to my big picture goals. Some days, when I send my kindergardener to school with his shirt tucked into his underwear, and those Spiderman undies then bunched over his poor fitting pants, and then I'm mid-spray Febreezing my toddler and I wonder "Where did I go wrong?! Who am I?"

And then there are the days, when I'm dreaming so passionately about this mother that I want to become, and these young men that I'm raising to change the world, but those children begin pounding on each other quarreling in the other room, daring to interrupt my prayers, and I scream at them "NO YELLING!"

Do you have these days, moms?!

Do you see what happens in these days?  My children become inconveniences on the way of me reaching my mothering ambitions.

This, this is very messed up.

And that's when it hits me.  When I realize what I have become. I realize who I am, in this high-achieving, low-grace day:

I am Mrs. PacMan.

Picture her, and you will see what I mean.

I am this fast moving, gluttonous beast of a mother, that is chomping and biting at my children when they don't perform, or obey, or rejoice over their green smoothies.  I gob at them, devouring their joy, just to get to my goals.  My aspirations of perfecting this mothering thing.

I must get to the point of accomplishment, or achievement.  Where my kids make me look good, quit pooping as a team in the backyard in front of the neighbor girl, and I learn to control my red-headed-temper.

And then the casualties come. Because when idealism paves my mothering path, there is little room for joy.

So what is a mom to do?

Here are a couple graces God is teaching me.

Yes, have a mission, and be on mission.  Know who you are in God's sight, know what you are called to.  Discern your priorities and what pleases God for you as a mommy. And pray over those hopes and dreams, bruise your knees before God on account of your children. Cry out for wisdom and hope as a mom, early in the morning before yours darlings awake and late at night.

However, I have found freedom-bearing-grace in setting my gaze directly ahead. When I  stop worrying about the end result of this mothering endeavor, when I halt the competitive dash to accomplishment, to attain a hue of perfection and control in all categories maternal.

And instead, take it one opportunity at a time.

Take it hour by hour, and pray for grace to be poured over each and every encounter.

When I let truth remove the burden of idealism, and give me a yoke that is instead light and easy, I am more likely to handle my fighting children with patience, and gentleness. When grace is the mommy song I sing, grace will be what shapes my children, rather than asking them to have it all together on the outside, no matter the inner turmoil.

I think of how Jesus has dealt with me.  I think about how he pours over each of my moments, failures, and temper tantrums with grace, rather than demands that I earn his love.  His strategy in purifying my conduct is packed within his kindness, and even his discipline is done in paternal love. Jesus even says that he despises the white washed tombs, that are filled with decay and deaths.

What can this look like?

Be it with an infant (or 5 year old) that needs you in the middle of the night. Where the voice of accomplishment will direct you only to getting your kid to sleep the schedule you prefer, Grace would remind you that this 3 AM call is an opportunity to call out to God, to thank him for this baby and to beg him to renew you and teach you of His steadfastness.

Arguing siblings are so tough, and will probably only get tougher. However, when Grace replaces my chains of expectations, I can take these borderline-violent-squabbles, I can calmly share with my boys their need for Jesus, the gift of mercy that can be theirs, and the God that loves them unconditionally.

And perhaps the most liberating, is when I completely screw up.  When I throw a bigger fit than them, use my words as daggers, and plow over their delicate souls with my selfishness.  When this happens, grace teaches me to apologize to my kids.  I remind them of how I can't be perfect, how they can't be perfect, and so Jesus was perfect for all of us.  And as we sit on this topic, sometimes it continues towards awesome soul-searching moments.

 But sometimes when we talk about Jesus we just end up talking about who would win between Jesus and the Hulk.

You win some, you lose some.

These are the moments that changed me. The moments when I started to give up my hopes for a win.

 Let's stop the ascent of Mount Momma, let's get our eyes off of the summit that claims we conquered this. Because then, we will find more of ourselves to give to our babies, and most of all, more of this God that gave us the humbling gift of motherhood.

Along the path of freedom, not expectations, we will find more gratitude, and then, joy.

I desire to travel along this maternal pilgrimage freed from anything but grace. Freed from control, pride, and guilt. As I stumble some days, and stride out on others, my feet will land only on His faithfulness.

I pray the same for each of you.

A Year Later: The Greatest Graces

A year has come and gone, already.

A year ago, I regularly claimed a corner of a bakery just south of Denver, I claimed it and marked it with my tears.  A bit animal like, now that I think of it. 

I'm sure I made the employees plenty awkward each time, me causing a scene, unaware of anyone around.  Which also kinda makes me laugh now.

One year later, it's nice to smile to myself a bit about that.

Today, on this good Friday, I'm camped out at another bakery, in eastern Iowa. There are tears again, but they are at least lady-like....ish.

And these tears, they are so very different.  

A year ago my husband had a pretty painful and emotional end to his job as a youth pastor. While we could have chalked it up to job loss or 'time for a change', God asked us to hop a top the metaphorical surgical table, and trust him as our heart changer and faith author.

My breath catches when I realize the possibility that such change and loss could have played out in different ways.  

What if God had not completely overcome me, disabling any anger or bitterness from growing? What if my husband hadn't fully received each word of discipline from God? What if he had chosen pride or pity?  I feel my heart accelerate at the thought.

Was that the sweetest grace of this last year? I think so.

What if our family hadn't been here to catch us, to break our fall?  What if my dad hadn't been so gracefully intentional with counseling both of us? What if God hadn't knit my husband's heart with my dad's, and who even thinks to pray for that kind of relationship? 

What if they would have let us coast, or give in to fear or drama? What if mom wouldn't have been born fun and free, and perfectly laid back so that my boys felt at home there, leaving miniature fingerprints on her mirrors and Spiderman on her bed and poop in their back garden (mostly the dog’s.)?  

Yes, those first 3 months, those were the richest graces from God. Hands down.

Or, maybe, the richest gift was my job change. How different would the year have gone if I had gotten the job I thought I just. had. to. have.? What pride would have continued to reign unchallenged in my heart, digging roots that spread wide and hidden?  What a gift that God would continue to use surprise changes to humble me, reminding me how much he desires that I trust him and desire his best for me. And it was in those days, that I gulped hard as I sensed that God wanted much, much more. It was then that I gave up thinking this transition and this heart-wrenching-heart-changing-process would be short lived.

Those weeks, when God came near and asked for more of my everything, perhaps those were the greatest grace.

What about the mind games that I was tempted to play throughout the year, replaying caustic words from people I am no better then.  What about working through the fact that not everyone was always gonna like me and some people where gonna straight up think I'm rotten.  And what if God hadn't gently asked me to stop fretting, but to put my trust in him and hear what they said.  And what if, in that moment, he wouldn't have swiftly replaced condemnation with his love and forgiveness?  What if on those days, grace wouldn't have allowed me to dance free and forgiven but left me under heavy yokes of guilt or fear? I shudder at the thought, that without grace, it could have gone much differently.

And what about the miracle of doubting at different times in these last 12 months?  What if I had never doubted that God would be enough, that his nearness would truly be enough good for me?  If I hadn't doubted, I wouldn't have experienced the miracle of the Gospel.  That it is indeed true that his power turns perfect when I'm weak. That my meager mustard seed of faith can be swallowed hole by his grace, and become enough, as I see God prove faithful time and time again. 

What if last week we wouldn't have had impromptu dinner with a young family who nonchalantly told us their story of how life turned out differently than they planned?  As our kids played at our ankles and squealed (fought.) in the background, they shared their example of living fully and serving fully and loving fully even though life remains different than they had thought. What if my heart hadn't 'bout leaped out of my chest that this is what God is asking of me now? What if God hadn't laid out this example to obey fully, today, this hour--rather than waiting for life to be what I expected. 

I believe that was the sweetest grace of this last year. Definitely. 

And what if my heart was scarred over thick and calloused, and not even beating or pumping for the lost and hopeless and strayed?  What if fear of failure or condemnation kept me from even wanting to be part of God's work and God's church again? What if God's grace wasn't redefining within me what it means to serve him and to desire His glory? What if I wasn't in the midst of learning how important it is to love people, not need them? 

(Oh boy, I think I'm making the Panera guy akward now. Sorry, buddy.)

But, I guess, I don't have to wonder.  Because this last trip around the sun, it was within the hands of a very, very faithful God.  He proved powerful over my Rebekah-isms. Left to myself, I surely would have drank many poisons, preserved many deadly habits,  and thrown many stones.   But I wasn't left to myself.  God came nearer than ever, more gently than ever.  And he worked miracles, yes. But none greater than when he changes my heart and lets me see his gospel in each new day.

The God who loved me enough to wound me that he might heal me, the God who took away that He might give me more of himself, He loves you the same, friend.  With all that is in me, I urge you to resist not this loving Father.  He asks for our hearts because he knows them. He asks for our trust, because he is the maker of good plans.  He allows us to hurt, that we might be open to His therapeutic hand. 

We can come to him messy, with our shirt tails out and ketchup on our face. ( I don't know, I have three little boys. That's what came to mind.) We don't have to impress him, it won't work anyway. We can come to him because of grace, and we come to grace because of Jesus. And Jesus can take broken, confused and even angry, and make it new.  

I don't look ahead to the next year to be better than the last.  I'm not looking for any form at arriving at anything.  I believe I'm done trying to get back what I miss from years past. 

But, what if...what if I could lay stiller and longer on this table that he has prepared for me?  What if I trusted more in his love, looked for more grace to draw from? What if, that will be the greatest grace?

Faith (for the Rest of Us)

My feet are one in front of the other.  As a gymnast on a beam, grace holding the posture.

One foot in front of the other. On a meager little branch, near the very top of an old Oak.

My arms are out, like airplane wings, posing for even the tiniest notion of secure balance.

My heart's up on this Oak and I'm at the most distal end of the branch.

And it wouldn't be that bad, if it weren't for that wind.  The chilled, almost biting, wind, that constantly invites me back towards the hub of the tree, where I might feel a bit stronger, and a bit safer.

The wind whistles and hisses, threatening me, tempting me to hurry back where I feel more comfortable, more like myself. Back to the yesterdays and the successes of times past, longing to return to the security of familiarity.

It's a cold wind, cutting right through my shirt and all the way to my often weak heart, and it beckons me to hunker in near the trunk, and then to inch back down, nearer the ground.

And it does it's best to deceive me--to seduce me with the lie--that a trust fall 2 feet off the ground is just as rewarding as the faith leap of that top branch.

But I hear you, God, over the whistle of the wind, inviting me to trust.

And without faith it is impossible to please God, for he who comes to him must believe that He exists, and that he rewards those who seek him.

I inhale slowly, as if filling up with grace, a grace that I hope will translate into courage when I breath it out.

I see you, Father, ahead of me, below me.

I see, now, that this is faith.

It's not as romantic of a notion as I make it.  The plaques of Hobby Lobby and the Pins make faith look easy, in a guise of religion or emotion. Somehow I correlate faith living with feelings of warm fuzzies and smiling applauding  (pretty) people giving me looks of affirmation.

But out here, out here there isn't even another branch to grasp for a mere moment of steadying myself. I don't feel much like myself out here, and perhaps that's the purpose.

I see that I haven't quite understood the depth of what live by faith means.

I hear your grace teaching me a richer understanding today. 

And the sooner I learn to believe in the absence of the securities and the plans, the sooner my confidence will bring more of the author of my faith.

Those who know your name, will trust in You. For you, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you.

If the ground below were scattered with friends and families and cheering and validations, I would miss the heart of this.  As rich as the multitudes' words can be, they can't be part of this.  This is between you, and me.  You want me out here, for you, and you alone.

And I hear you say that I'm right where you want me, toe-to-heel, arms out, palms up to you. When I cease planning and controlling and fearing, and come to you out here. 

And I learn that this, this is what living by faith looks like today.

There are these times in life, when we face storms and everyone's watching. Ya know, these big, dramatic leaps of faith and eyes are on you. Right?  The leaps that are coupled with a rush of adrenaline.  When change rushes in, losses pile, or hurts cut deep.

I have been there, and experienced the miracle of Christ's sufficiency in those weeks.

And those stories scream glories to God. Those are the stories I will probably tell my grandchildren, the stories of God making new roads and parting waters.

But will I remember to tell them of Wednesday faith?

Ya know, the weekday faith.

Faith for the rest of us, I guess you could say.

When there is nothing dramatic to stir up the adrenaline to help us leap.

Faith for the rest of us, when our days march in a mundane fashion.

An invitation to believe when it's not really exciting, you aren't seemingly on the cusp of anything thrilling.

The faith our God loves to see, when nobody else is watching.  The daily belief that he deserves my heart and my obedience today, even in seasons of quiet waiting or steady perseverance.

I know many of you are with me, on this gaunt branch, finding your faith minimal when the drama and flare are a thing of the past.

Maybe it's just another Wednesday in the 20th year of praying for your husband to come around.

Perhaps it's the 900th Wednesday of infertility, and your mustard seed is meager.

Maybe it's felt like a lifetime of Wednesdays praying for a change or an answer that just won't hasten.

Maybe the hump of this hump daaaaaay (yes. Camel voice.) is so private and quiet, that I couldn't even guess it in this blog.

Father, could it be, that it's these daily quiet choices to believe in Your goodness and Your faithfulness, that are our live's most rewarding challenges?

Because Your grace is teaching me in these days.

It's teaching me that faith can't be separated from your grace. It's Your grace that holds me out there, when I so often long to return to the safety of a more known, planned life.

When the scrimpy mustard seed of faith doesn't seem substantial enough to keep me believing, Your grace makes up where I lack.

Because out here, at the most distal end of the tallest branch, on the windiest day, I catch a glimpse of my reward: I hear better of your grace amazing, I see better your heart, I know better your presence.

Sojourners of Christmas Grace

As I plop down, only to snuggled back up,  my dog on my right, laptop on my left, I see the mail man sprinting from stoop to stoop outside.  How perfect that is, as I race to quip this year's version of a Christmas letter.  Saving dollars on stamps and hours on stuffing, this year.  I apologize for those of you who much prefer the old fashioned traditional letter.  I am with you, there is something magical about a mailbox stuffed with greetings and updates from people near and far. I promise to not cheat next year. :)

As our year draws to a close, my nostalgia and reflectiveness is up there with the best of you. But I found Chritmas letter writing to be a puzzling challenge this year.   Perhaps it's because of the tendency of Christmas letters to be...conclusive.  Ya know, they seem to be putting a stamp on the year as they summarize what happened, and how it turned out.  There's almost this silent pressure to claim each event or struggle as complete, as the letters travel out. A Christmas card is almost like a pretty bow that ties up your year.

However, this December, I approach Christmas lacking any sense of arrival. I don't mean that to sound negative, in fact, I feel quite freed by this realization. And there is no bow of sorts that could sufficiently tie up this past year for us.  However, I could write a novel of the graces of God I have experienced since last Christmas, chapters upon chapters, but then the gifts would never get wrapped, the children dog never let out, and my husband wouldn't have anybody to listen to him talk about Fantasy Football. So, I'll attempt to simplify my heart's ponderings this holiday.

There aren't a lot of accomplishments to tell you (except that Micah told his kindergarten class that Santa doesn't exist. *sigh.) There are no vacations to highlight, or professional achievements to record.

But there is this. There is this journey we have been on, this adventure. It has included some blind turns and dark alleys but always this bright light.  This grace light, that has led like the star of Bethlehem.  And the Johnsons have been nothing but sojourners of grace on this journey.

The beginning of our year was tough, as many of you know.  Full of loving discipline and tender teaching, God ended our time in Denver. His grace hemmed us in, before and behind, pushing us to leave our home and friends of 7 years, and pulling us home, to Iowa. He seemed to have one hand working deep surgical-like changes on our souls, and another holding us together as a family.  How gracious and faithful he was to be nearer than ever as we traveled through heart work, loss, and changes.

As we journeyed through the Spring, his grace was sufficient still.  We first landed in Bettendorf, where my parents essentially broke our fall.  They listened as we processed changes, and counseled us through tough lessons of ministry.  Whether on a evening walk, or during commercials of Dancing with the Stars, we ate up their sermons of truth and grace. The boys seemed to thrive during this time, making up lost time with cousins and grandmas and aunts and more grandmas and more aunts....

The summer and fall were full of tons of extended family time, and we couldn't be happier about it! We journeyed west one hour and rented a home in Iowa City, where Matt got a job with Beisser Lumber and I began working at the University of Iowa Hospital in Oncology. (It's been six months, but all three boys still scream out "Herky!" whenever they see a Hawkeye icon.  When you live in Colorado, that's great.  But when you live in Iowa City, that's a lot of screaming.) God has been kind to excessively provide friends-old and new-along the way in Iowa City. In some ways, the pace of this past year has been slower, allowing us to refocus on our family of five, and we are beyond thankful for that. We have found new joy in Maxwell's humor, Mathias' mercy, and Micah's leadership. Many family dinners end with us laughing at Max, or learning from Micah, and holding Mathias.

One of the sweetest joys of our adventure has been in our new church. In April we joined my brother and Matt's step-sister at Veritas Church in Iowa City.  A church plant of 4 years, with a thriving college ministry, a church that preaches crazy grace and daily Gospel, a church that has provided refreshment and community.  And as if his graces aren't piled high enough yet, they brought Matt on staff part time just a few weeks ago. How I have loved watching him come to life as he gets to experience God in this way again. I, too, have gotten a few opportunities to speak to women and girls in the last few months.

Christmas grace is sweet, isn't it?  An opportunity to glance back and see how abundant God is to come to us, on that first Christmas night and every day of 2014. As Jesus draws us out as pilgrims of faith, sojourning towards himself,  may we feel freed by grace. This God is with us, not because we are good enough, but because He was perfect for us.

We pray you have a Merry Christmas this year!