A Sunday Birth

It’s near midnight. The minutes are ticking toward the last Sunday before Christmas. I spent the day wrapping gifts, baking, napping and watching a Christmas movie with my family. But mostly, I’ve been quiet. Reflecting. And dreading Sunday.

I thought about last winter when I asked God to break the chains that have apparently been passed from generation to generation in my family. I begged Him to break them before my daughters became shackled with them.

I thought about how my daughters’ eyes have watched and questioned as mine shed a million tears this year.

I thought about broken dreams and broken relationships and how I wish my skin weren’t so thin that it allows an easily-broken heart.

I thought about all the criticism I’ve taken and taken and taken this year and how I’m weary of explaining myself to people who only want to prove themselves and their versions of God to be right.

I sit here next to a thousand lights glowing in the darkness, trying to ready myself for Christmas. I wonder how to celebrate Jesus’ coming to earth to make everything new when all I see are chains tightening around my girls, the broken pieces of my life still stabbing at my heart, and the last of dying flickers of fire in my eyes. I wonder how I keep embracing this God with us when all I really want is to collapse in His arms and find shelter from all the harsh realities.

Then there’s this. The author of the grace book that changed my life a few years ago announced a few days ago that he no longer believes in God or Jesus. While the announcement has rocked my world, I can’t bring myself to judge him because there are days when I think it would be easier to walk away from it all. I think about how easy it is to believe in a silent God when everything is clicking along just fine; but let Him be silent when we need Him most, and who doesn’t at least think about calling it quits?

But there’s also this. In the midst of receiving harsh criticism this week, my friend prayed for me, asking God to let me hear Him singing over me. Only hours later, in a conversation about not casting your pearls before pigs, I couldn’t decide which I was. Pig? Or pearl? So I asked. God, I need to know what you think of me. Immediately the song, “My Beloved” by Kari Jobe began running through my head. I heard Him singing over me.

Sunday is here, and I’ll miss this last chance to sing carols with community this year. I wonder if the world feels joy as I sit here on this very silent night. I make the choice to choose joy this Sunday, waiting for it with pains similar to that of labor. Reflecting…Breaking…Weary…Listening as He sings a lullaby over me as He births something new in me.