Photo by Greyson Joralemon for Unsplash

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life (John 3:16).

Love among us.

Christmas conjures up a myriad of thoughts, feelings, and responses.

Some people twirl through the season like the Nutcracker’s Sugarplum Princess, while others trudge along from November first to December twenty-fifth like Ebenezer Scrooge. There are, of course, those in between—fighting to grasp the joy of the season while simultaneously working through a never-ending and unrealistic to-do list.

Christmas holds pain and loss for some, miracles for others, and an earnest joy for those determined to hold on to the fundamental good that is Christmas.

But Christmas is more than a holiday of goodwill toward men. It is more than traditions and presents, cookies and pie. It is even more than the candles we light for Advent.

Christmas is the moment Love entered into humanity and determined to dwell among us.

Not only this, but it is also the instant where freedom to love and be loved by Love was born.

Isaiah prophesied that a day would come when a Savior would be born, who would sit on David’s throne and whose kingdom would have no end.[1]

The angels declared to the shepherds on the night of Jesus’ birth that a Messiah, the Savior, had been born.[2]

Long-awaited and anticipated, Immanuel—God with us—was here. Here on planet Earth. Here to live. Here to stay (through the Holy Spirit). Here to walk with us, abide with us, sit with us, lead and guide us. Here to love. And for those who determined to accept this Truth, His love has become a part of us.

And this Love did more than simply be with us.

This Love died for us.

All week long, I’ve been thinking about what I would write for today’s Advent post. To be honest, I was hoping that God would endue me with an extra measure of creativity and insight when I started writing. But nothing came.

In a conversation I was having with our older kids this morning at brunch, we started to share what love looks like to each of us. Sitting there, listening, it hit me how often I shift into autopilot when I recall the stories of Christmas and Easter.

Maybe you can relate?

We’ve heard them and told them so many times and in so many different ways that the depth and profundity of what God did gets lost in all of the clutter of the holidays.

God gave us His Son, Jesus—the most perfect and unblemished gift—on Christmas Day. Jesus was God incarnate, living among us, walking the streets, and rubbing shoulders with mankind. And then, Jesus died a horrendous death so that the wretchedness of humanity could have personal access to God. The payment of sin that we owed was reconciled through Christ’s sacrifice.

The resurrection that we celebrate on Easter is the exclamation point at the end of a long and dark sentence.

The waiting was finished.

That is the truest and most powerful love. No embellishment needed.

William Barclay described it this way: “God the judge has become God the lover of the souls of men.”[3]

Imagine that!

God is the lover of our souls. And this love spilled over the rim of heaven and met us here on Earth on Christmas Day.

Immanuel has not left us or abandoned us.

He resides within us, and He is all around.

Love is among us.

O holy Child of Bethlehem,
descend to us, we pray;
cast out our sin and enter in;
be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels,
the great glad tidings tell;
O come to us, abide with us,
our Lord Emmanuel!

O Little Town of Bethlehem, written by Phillips Brooks in 1868

[2] Bible Gateway. “Isaiah 9 NIV – - Bible Gateway.” Www.biblegateway.com, www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Isaiah%209&version=NIV.

[3] Barclay, William. “Commentary on John 1″. “William Barclay’s Daily Study Bible”. https://www.studylight.org/commentaries/eng/dsb/john-1.html. 1956-1959.

Today, we have a guest post written by my husband, Joel Slater. Raising boys with special needs is not a one-parent job. Joel and I each bring our own perspectives, gifts, abilities, and experiences into this parenting journey. We are both being refined through the process, but it oftentimes looks and feels a little different. I hope you will enjoy.

Have you ever had this experience? It’s the experience where, after something suddenly becomes important or relevant to you, you start noticing it everywhere—far more often than you ever did before. It can feel almost spooky or conspiratorial (some people even joke it’s “the universe sending signs” or “the simulation glitching”). Well, sorry to disappoint you, conspiracy theorists, but it’s not. It’s simply a quirk of human cognition called “frequency illusion.” There are two main reasons: selective attention and confirmation bias. Selective attention occurs because your brain has a built-in filter called the reticular activating system (RAS). When does this filter kick in? Once something gains emotional or practical significance, your RAS flags it as “important” and prioritizes it in your perception.

I have personally experienced this when it comes to our sons, Jackson and Jasper.

Few things have as much emotional or practical significance as when we discovered Jackson had been losing his eyesight his whole life. He has Dominant Optic Atrophy. He was declared legally blind in 2023. I never consciously realized how much we learn through our sense of sight: how we learn social interaction, how we learn what is trending, how we pick up nonverbal cues, and many other things that have practical significance. My heart broke when we got his diagnosis. I grieved for him when I thought of all the challenges facing him and all the experiences I imagined him missing. I also grieved for myself as, not only recalling that I would not be able to teach him to drive a car, along with other rites of passage so common to young men, but what might be required of me in the long run. To be honest, I didn’t believe I either had the talent or the temperament to parent a child with special needs. Little did I realize that more was expected of me.

In addition, our youngest son, Jasper, is autistic. If you casually observe him, you couldn’t tell the difference. But when you know Jasper—really know him—you see it. And seeing it changes you. The emotional significance of learning you have a child who may struggle in ways you are not prepared for, such as adapting to new situations, smelling common types of food, or being in a noisy room, heightens your awareness of how both the internal and external forces will impact everyone. I was overwhelmed with the idea of a fourth child, coming when Amy and I were in our early forties. I didn’t think I could do it again. So much has changed since then.

Increasingly learning about autism has changed my perception of Jasper, of families with autistic children, of families in general, and life in general. I now see a child who perceives the world in a way I do not, but he sees beauty, humor, and opportunities everywhere. I now, with more patience and compassion, see parents who are hypersensitive to not only their child’s perception of the world but also how that world perceives both the child and the parent. I no longer focus only on my struggles, but I see families who have far greater struggles helping their child than I do with mine. I see situations that will not change, so the families facing those situations must do the changing. I think I’ve moved in that direction.

When you know someone who has a disability like Jackson’s eyesight or has a child, like Jasper with autism, you can either live in a world of perpetual frustration or admit you have no choice but to begin to see the world through their eyes, to learn how they perceive the world. That can—and should—change your perception. I used to place a premium on responding quickly, getting things done, accomplishing tasks, “making it happen,” and ensuring anything and everything happened seamlessly. Having children with special needs demanded that I change.

And that’s the key—it does change you. I can’t make the miracle happen. We can’t heal or treat Jackson; we can’t change Jasper. I once wished we could. I once wished they were “normal.” I think our whole family has either said this or at least thought this. But if we believe what we really say we believe, that each child is “made in the image of God,” then Jackson and Jasper are the way they are supposed to be. And that is one perception that has changed in me. I have had to learn how Jasper sees the world, how he hears sounds, how different smells affect him, and how he handles change. I am more sensitive to the fact that, despite these things not bothering me, they bother my son, so it should (and does) matter to me. I see Jackson enthusiastically engaging life. I see him find humor in his hardship. I see him adapt so that he may live life to the fullest. In other words, I have been the one who adapts.

So, I have embraced the phrase “perspective and process.”  This phrase is inspired by a story in Mark 8:22-26, which describes the miracle Jesus performs in healing a blind man.

We have prayed constantly for Jackson to receive his sight. Missionaries have prayed for him. Africans have prayed for him. And yet, no miracle. This is not to discourage or doubt the power of prayer. When I want to stop praying, I’m reminded of what Nicky Gumble at Holy Trinity Brompton Church in London, UK, said: “We used to never pray, and nothing would happen; now, we pray all the time, and sometimes things happen!”

Before someone chastises me for lacking faith, Mark points out that those who walked most closely with Jesus struggled to maintain their faith for miracles. Mark 8:14-21 tells us that further down the road, the disciples had forgotten some of that leftover miracle loaf they had received. Jesus used this as a teaching moment, and all the disciples could worry about was not having bread. He asks, “Do you have eyes but fail to see, and ears but fail to hear? And don’t you remember…” Ouch.  In other words, hasn’t experience taught us that we don’t need to worry, that our perspective ought to be changed in light of what God has already done and is already doing?

The point is: we so often expect God only in the supernatural when, if I change my perspective, I see God working often in the natural. Thanks to his teachers, therapists, and resources through the Oregon Commission for the Blind, Jackson is loving life, making friends, and graduated second in his class from an online school!

Because of early intervention, a fantastic neurodevelopmental pediatrician, and consistent speech/occupational therapy, Jasper has made amazing progress: he is beloved by all at his school; he has friends. He is smart as a whip, really good at sports, and is a talented artist. All these attributes are miracles, but none of these were seemingly supernatural, and none of these were instantaneous, which leads me to the other part of the lesson: the process.

Mark 8:22-26 touches me personally—probably another instance of “frequency illusion” because of the emotional connection. Only Mark records this miracle. Jesus comes to Bethsaida, and some people bring him a blind man, begging Him to touch him.  Jesus’s approach to this need is what caught my attention. First, verse 23 says, “He took the blind man by the hand and led him outside the village.”  While we always want to see a miracle or have a front-row seat to what God is doing, Jesus does this miracle in private. Second, verse 23 also reveals that Jesus spits on the man’s eyes. Our cultural conditioning would think this is rude, insensitive, and downright unsanitary. But the culture in which this miracle takes place sees spit as a familiar remedy. Third, when Jesus put his hands on the man, he asked him what he saw, and this is where the story stands out: “He looked up and said, ‘I see people; they look like trees walking around.’” Jesus placed His hands on the man a second time, and it was only then that the man’s eyes were opened, his sight was restored, and he saw everything clearly (Mark 8:25). In other words, Jesus healed him gradually. It was a process.

But it still counts.

What do I take away from this story? First, I learn that Jesus has far more love and compassion for my boys than even I do! He loves them unconditionally. And yet, He has entrusted me to both have compassion for them and be involved in showing that compassion.

I catch myself just staring at these boys and marveling at the works of art they are. I am constantly startled by the people that Jackson has impacted: from the young Zulu server at our favorite coffee place who constantly asks about Jackson to the elderly couple who stopped me on the walking path asking about “the delightful young man we met a few weeks ago.” And I listen to how Jasper’s Zulu, Xhosa, Indian, and Afrikaner friends speak to him and about him.

Second, while I long for a supernatural way of seeing them healed, my perspective of what constitutes a miracle has changed. Aside from his physical sight, Jackson has stated personally that he has, in a way, been healed. He used his journey through pain and grief of losing his eyesight to illustrate how God actually healed his heart. His rage, his resentment, his sorrow, have been replaced by joy, peace, and expectation of what God can continue to do. I whisper to myself, “That’s a miracle!”

Jasper, despite being on the spectrum, lives life to the full: he loves LEGO, he can draw almost anything, he seems to play sports like he was designed for it, and he has friends, lots of friends.  There are some simple things he has struggled with for more years than he was supposed to, but through the process, he has overcome them. I once thought, “He will never master this.” Now, I remind myself that “anything is possible, given enough time.”

While I used to want things to happen “now,” I find myself embracing the truth that healing sometimes comes through a process. It happens in stages. It happens through natural methods. While we await and expect the supernatural, God is working in the natural. My boys are living testimonies to that.

Perspective and process: these are the lessons I’ve learned parenting two boys with special needs. Earlier, I referred to Jackson and Jasper as works of art. Any work of art, especially masterpieces, can only truly be appreciated if we recognize the original artist’s perspective and learn to appreciate their process. I humbly believe that, today, I’m able to appreciate the masterpieces of Jackson and Jasper more because of a change in my perspective and a greater appreciation for God’s process. Perhaps, as you hear our story, you can think about what you can change your perspective on and what the process may be that God wants to take you through, so that you may see things differently.

Let every heart prepare him room.

Joy to the World, written by Isaac Watts (1719)

Our college kids will be home for Christmas soon!

Floors are being swept and mopped while beds are being made.

A menu has been prepared with much-loved home-cooked meals.

The fridge is stocked, and favorite snacks are in the cupboard.

Our home is being prepared for the arrival of three very special guests, and my heart can hardly handle the waiting.

Soon.

They will be home soon.

***

There is a meme circulating. Mary and Joseph have arrived in Bethlehem. Joseph is apologizing to Mary for not booking a reservation at any of the local inns. Mary is irritated but responds to Joseph with, “I’m fine!” And anyone reading the meme would know that Mary is definitely not fine.

Most of our traditional nativity stories imply that Mary and Joseph were unprepared for their stay in Bethlehem. But the reality was that due to the census, Joseph’s family home—where they intended to stay—was full. Rather than stay in one of the guest rooms, Joseph’s family relocated the couple to the stable, where the animals were kept.

Whether one chooses to believe the traditional story or abide by the more accurate explanation of how the nativity unfolded, one thing we can be very certain of is that the place and time of Christ’s birth were intentional.

The stable may seem awfully primitive for a King, but this setting was exactly the way God ordered the events of that night.

Humble.

Unassuming.

Away from the congested home where family members were bumping up against each other throughout the day.

A place to prepare and make space for a newborn baby.

And in this stable, amongst the animals and the smells and the hay and the braying, Immanuel, God with us, was born.

In the well-known hymn, Joy to the World, one of the lines in the first verse says, “Let every heart prepare him room.”

How are you preparing your heart this Advent season?

What would making room for Jesus look like for you?

As I am busy with all the preparations before our kids arrive for Christmas, I am also taking time to pull away from the noise and hustle, the online social media chaos, and the urgent to-do list, to give God a more attentive me.

Lighting the Advent candles on Sunday, taking turns reciting the Scriptures and responding, singing hymns, and praying as a family, draws our attention away from ourselves and onto the One whom we celebrate.

Each evening when we light the Advent candle and read the devotional for the day, we are setting aside time to abide with Christ as a family.

This is how we are making room.

Don’t miss out on the preciousness of this season.

Don’t let the clutter of Christmas crowd out the beauty and wonder and joy of Christ’s birth.

Open wide your heart and prepare a place for Him to stay.

Prepare the way for the Lord, make straight paths for him.

Luke 3:4

The door is on the latch tonight,

The hearth-fire is aglow,

I seem to hear soft passing feet —

The Christchild in the snow.

My heart is open wide tonight

For stranger, kith or kin;

I would not bar a single door

Where love might enter in.

Author Unknown

Isaiah prophesied that the Messiah would come.

He wrote: “The people walking is darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned. For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be upon his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:2 & 6).

A heavy darkness had settled upon the world, and the world yearned for light.

And light would surely come.

At the appointed time.

In a simple stable on an unassuming night, light would dawn upon humanity.

Its beams would settle upon people who were lost and living without hope.

We find ourselves in a similar state.

It seems all the light in the world is flickering under the weight of evil.

Yet, the Light of the world has not left us.

The gospel of John reminds us: “Jesus said, ‘I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will have the light of life and will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life’” (John 8:12).

He is still here.

He is still with us.

Our hope is secure. Our promise has come.

Hold on with steady hands to the Hope that will not disappoint you.

Leave the door unlocked tonight.

Keep your heart open.

Let love enter in.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.

Romans 15:13

Hot and dry. A thick orangey-red haze coated the landscape as I stepped out of the Lilongwe International Airport. I pushed the heavy cart loaded with maybe three or four suitcases and a large trunk wrapped with luggage straps to keep them from busting open. Brooklyn and Jackson, my siblings, pushed their own carts piled high with luggage as well. With one arm, we all struggled to push the heavy carts through the small airport, while using the other arm to hold the top suitcase in order to keep them from falling. Our mom followed close by, holding Jasper, our youngest brother, by the hand, who was clutching his favorite stuffed bunny and lion. Our dad led the way pushing another cart as we crossed through the doors and into the late afternoon heat.

Up until that moment, never in the sixteen years of my life, had I spent more than five hours on a plane, and I had just finished the longest trip of my life: 30 hours later, from the cushy, clean, and green suburbs of Portland, Oregon, arriving in Lilongwe, Malawi, Africa which was not cushy, clean, or green.

“Takulandirani!” an old man smiled, his wide grin revealing missing teeth.

“Muli bwanji!” a couple of African mamas said, walking past with their babies strapped to their backs with colorful fabrics called kitenges.

People were everywhere, walking in and out of the airport, waiting for the bus, leaning on the sides of their taxis. I looked past the sea of people to see our missionary team. “Welcome to Malawi!” they cheered.

I felt so excited. Finally, we are here! But almost immediately, I felt overstimulated. My ears were filled with words that I never heard of before, the sounds of airplanes taking off, laughter, and motorcycles called tuk tuks tooting their horns. My nose was overwhelmed with the many interesting smells like smoke from the fires that burned the maize fields and body odor. Lots of body odor. People everywhere, some yelling, asking if we needed a taxi, others chatting while waiting for the bus, and then our missionary team waving and smiling and welcoming us to our new home.

After we said our hellos and gave hugs to the welcoming group, we packed all of our luggage into the dirty Toyota Fortuners and headed off to the missionary compound where we would be living for the next few years.

I looked out the dusty window and saw the orange sun begin to set over the Malawian landscape. A herd of skinny goats pranced along the side of the road. Small, stick-like trees sat still in the middle of the maize fields. Long trails of white smoke danced up into the sky. As we travelled down the bumpy red dirt road, the driver swerved to the left and right to avoid potholes and people and asked us how the trip went. I couldn’t believe that we were finally here.

We were “home.”

As much as I would like to share how idyllic, wonderful, and adventurous life was after that day we arrived in sunny, hot Malawi, it unfortunately was not.

From the first night onward, this city girl had no idea what she had gotten herself into. I had heard of culture shock but thought of it as a myth. There’s no way I will deal with culture shock like some people. Maybe it’s because they’re weak? Those were my honest thoughts.

I was wrong.

I lived in perpetual culture shock, whenever I opened my eyes in the morning, to when I closed them to go to sleep. Everywhere I looked and went, there was something new to learn and understand. It felt like I had to learn how to live all over again.

Over the next few weeks, our team members would tell us, “Don’t drink the tap water! The power goes out all the time! We will run out of water! Watch out for the mosquitoes! Lock your doors!” I know they were trying to be helpful, but honestly, it was far from helpful. My already overwhelmed brain was trying to understand all of this new and unfamiliar information.

As I dealt with the shock of being in a third-world country, I started to feel the overwhelming realization that I was living there, and that this was my new reality. I missed my grandparents and my friends. I missed my house and my room. I missed my church and my school. I even missed the little things like brushing my teeth with the sink water, and when the leaves change colors in the fall.

I wanted to go back home to America.

Each day, I started to feel like God was farther and farther away. I wondered where God was. Each night before I would fall asleep, I would think to myself, “Why would God allow this to happen? Why would He take away every single thing I loved so much? Why did my family have to go?” I did not get an answer.

I believed the fact that my family and I were “stuck” in Malawi. I did not have a good attitude about my new life in Africa. Life seemed to be getting harder and harder and my friends and family stateside began to grow farther and farther away. Going to school in Malawi was a horrible experience, and I started to feel so alone. The days turned into months and suddenly the start of a new year began and I was the loneliest I have ever been.

Whispers of a thing called “the coronavirus” started to circulate, and I will never forget the day that the Malawian government shut down the schools. When the government told the country to quarantine, we began a new routine of waking up early, doing school online, and then finding things to do on the compound since we couldn’t leave. As the weeks went by, we heard news via Instagram and Facebook and from concerned family members about how serious the COVID pandemic was getting.

The U.S. Embassy contacted the American expats living in the city to inform about a flight leaving Malawi and going back to the States before the government shut down the airport. Deep down I prayed that my family would leave. I would rather sit in an uncomfortable seat for 12 hours in economy than stay in Malawi.

My wonderful, prayerful parents wanted to leave, too. But to this day, they will say that they did not feel released from God to leave. Soon before the flight’s departure date, my parents sat me and my siblings down after dinner and said: “We have been praying about what to do next, and we feel like we need to stay in Malawi.”

I felt like I was punched in the gut.

What do you mean “stay in Malawi?” All by ourselves? The rest of the team is leaving! What will we do now? I was so disappointed. I did not understand why we had to stay in Malawi when it seemed like this was our ticket out of Malawi for good. Our time in Malawi had been difficult for each one of us, and it was not what we expected. Again, I wondered where God was in all of this. Little did I know that staying would actually be the best thing to ever happen to me and my family.

One by one, the families on our compound left Malawi and went back to the U.S. while my family stayed confined in the red brick walls of our compound. At first, I was mad. Then I felt relieved. Maybe this isn’t such a bad thing. Maybe there is a reason for all of this. Soon, it was just my little family alone on the compound.

My family had always been a close family, at least closer than most of my friends’. We had family dinners and had movie nights on Fridays and had little traditions throughout the year. But when COVID came to Malawi, everything changed. It forced my family and me to spend lots and lots of time together: watching Lost and Alias, baking from-scratch chocolate cakes, and even celebrating Christmas in July (because it got “cold”). We had so much time to be with each other which we now reflect on as the best time in our lives and laugh at all of the memories we made together.

In the midst of wondering where God was, and whether He abandoned me or not, I decided to turn to Jesus during what was the hardest season of my life. In my room during quarantine, after months and months of asking God why and where He was, I realized that God never left me. He never left my family. Even through difficulty, frustration, and pain, that is where I found Jesus. At 16 years old in the middle of the COVID 19 pandemic, in Malawi, I re-dedicated my life to Jesus. It took moving across the ocean to a foreign land (that I honestly did not know existed) for me to start my own relationship with Him.

When I first got to Malawi, I wondered where God was and what He was doing. Now, years after that first day stepping out of that small airport, I know that God was with me the whole time. I do not know exactly why God sent my family to Malawi specifically. But I believe that it was to change me, draw me closer to Him, and draw me closer to my family. Moving there at 16 years old, prepared me for living a life with God. What I have learned is this: Wherever you are going, wherever God has placed you, He has a purpose and plan. He will use the good, the bad, and the painful to bring us closer to Him and for His glory.

We find his story in the book of Genesis. Anyone who grew up going to church will be quite up to speed with this story. I can still see the flannel graph pictures of Joseph surrounded by bales of wheat bowing in his direction during those early morning Sunday school lessons. It is a story most of us have heard many times. But for those of you reading this who are not familiar with Joseph’s story, I want to quickly give you a recap of his life.

Joseph’s story is found in the book of Genesis, chapters 35-50.

He was the firstborn son of Rachel and Jacob (Jacob, who was later renamed Israel after wrestling with God). Joseph had ten older brothers. These were the sons of Leah (Rachel’s sister), Bilhah (Rachel’s maidservant), and Zilpah (Leah’s maidservant).

Israel, his father, loved Joseph more than any of his brothers. This created jealousy and spite toward Joseph. It did not help matters when Joseph had a dream where all of their sheaves of grain bowed down to his. And again, another dream which he shared with great enthusiasm, where the sun, moon, and eleven stars all bowed down to him.

Infuriated by Joseph’s audacity to imply that they would bow down to him, and even further provoked by their father’s preference for him, the brothers devised a plan to get rid of Joseph forever.

Initially, they intended to kill him, but Reuben—the oldest of all the brothers—convinced the others to throw Joseph into a cistern. (He planned to return later and help Joseph escape.) The brothers agreed to this new plan, and when Joseph arrived, they stripped him of his beautiful robe—a treasured gift from Jacob, and a sign of his favoritism—and tossed The Dreamer into the cistern.

A caravan of Ishmaelites was passing by. Seeing this caravan, Judah (one of the brothers) had the bright idea of selling Joseph into slavery as opposed to killing him, which would leave his blood on their hands. The brothers agreed, and they sold Joseph for twenty shekels of silver.

Realizing that their father would be expecting Joseph to return home at some point, the brothers slaughtered a goat, ripped Joseph’s robe apart, and then dipped the pieces into the goat’s blood. They presented the bloodied robe to their father. Jacob was grief-stricken and tore his clothes. He mourned over the loss of Joseph for many days.

The caravan of Ishmaelites made their way to Egypt, where they sold Joseph to Potiphar, one of Pharaoh’s officials. Joseph worked hard and with great integrity, gaining much favor in the sight of Potiphar. Because of his strong character, much was entrusted to Joseph.

Potiphar’s wife took a liking to Joseph, and she tried to seduce him. She was not a woman who took no for an answer, and she repeatedly invited him into bed with her. Each time Joseph declined. One day, when Joseph and Potiphar’s wife were alone in the house, she grabbed his cloak and pulled it off. Joseph ran away. Potiphar’s wife was humiliated and resented Joseph. She retaliated by accusing him of trying to take advantage of her. Enraged with anger, Potiphar threw Joseph into prison.

I want to pause here.

Joseph, throughout this entire exchange, remained upright and honest. He held on to his character and integrity, and he worked diligently to honor his master. Joseph’s crime against his brothers was simply his own immaturity, and yet he was hated and sold into a life of slavery. Joseph maintained his integrity amidst the ongoing seductions of his master’s wife.

His dreams were shattered, and his good behavior landed him in prison. I wonder if he felt an ounce of confusion or worry, or depression?

How could a person do everything right and still end up in a dungeon?

Have you ever asked the same question regarding your own life? God, how did I end up here after doing everything the right way—the way you asked of me? How?

Back to Joseph’s story…

It did not take long before Joseph won the heart and favor of the prison warden. Once again, Joseph proved himself to be trustworthy and reliable. Genesis, chapter 39, verse 23 says, “The Lord was with Joseph and gave him success in whatever he did.”

There came a moment of significant hope for Joseph. The king’s cupbearer and baker were both thrown into prison. During that time, each of these men had a dream. They were perplexed as no one could interpret their dreams. When Joseph approached them, he asked them to share their dreams with him, and they did. God gave Joseph the interpretation of these dreams. The baker would be executed, and the cupbearer would return to his position. To the cupbearer, Joseph made one request: that the cupbearer would mention him to Pharaoh and get him out of prison.

Everything that Joseph said to these men proved true, but when the cupbearer returned to his duties, he completely forgot about Joseph.

Two years went by.

Let’s pause again lest we rush through the weightiness of this part of the story.

The cupbearer, who promised to speak on Joseph’s behalf once released from prison, completely forgot about Joseph. Can you picture Joseph sitting in prison waiting for rescue, for reprieve, for freedom? And then waiting for two years? Disheartening. Devastating. Crushing and heartbreaking. These are the words that come to mind when I picture this scene. And yet, what we know is that Joseph continued to live uprightly and with honor.

Two years later, Pharaoh had two disturbing dreams. He called for all the magicians and wise men to come and interpret his dreams. They were unable to do so. It was at this time that the cupbearer remembered Joseph (good for you, cupbearer!), and he told Pharaoh about the prisoner who had interpreted his dream.

Pharaoh called for Joseph. He told him his dreams, and once again, God gave Joseph the interpretation. The news was not favorable. Seven years of abundance would be followed by a seven-year famine that would ravage the land. Pharaoh found himself in need of a wise and discerning man to prepare Egypt for this severe famine to come. Joseph laid out a plan that would prepare Egypt for this great crisis. God’s favor was upon Joseph, and Pharaoh put him in charge of everything. Pharaoh placed his signet ring upon Joseph’s finger and made it clear that nothing could be done without Joseph’s command.

The seven years of abundance came and went. And then the famine set in. The famine spread throughout the world, and people—far and wide—journeyed to Egypt to buy food.

Joseph’s family, still living in Canaan, was one of those many families who traveled to find food.

Joseph was now the governor of Egypt, and he was the one who sold grain to the people who came in search of food. When his brothers arrived, they bowed before Joseph.

This is where the story really kicks into gear. There has been a lot of waiting, of hoping, of wondering about long-lost dreams and deferred hope. And suddenly, in walked Joseph’s brothers.

Joseph, somewhere around twenty years before this moment, had a dream. In this dream, his brothers bowed down to him. He was despised, sold into slavery, and presumed dead because of the jealous rage his brothers had for him. For twenty years, it appeared that this dream had died—that somehow Joseph had misinterpreted the meaning of the bowing sheaves of grain, and the bowing sun, moon, and stars.

The dream was dead.

And yet, here—twenty years later—Joseph stood with his brothers bowing at his feet.

What is incredibly precious about this moment, and cannot be overlooked, is Joseph’s response to his brothers.

He didn’t gloat over their circumstances.

He didn’t smear their hateful behavior in their faces.

He didn’t punish them by withholding food from them and their families.

Rather, through the course of this story, Joseph embraced his brothers. After twenty years, he saw his dreams from a different perspective. Yes, his brothers—and eventually his father—did bow down to him, but not for his own selfish gain or pride.

Joseph’s dreams at the age of seventeen were a partial view of the grander story God was writing upon the life of Joseph. They were true, but they didn’t hold the weight of the responsibility and pain that Joseph would experience to get to that point. Joseph’s recognition of God’s sovereignty and goodness throughout this entire story is most evident in his response to his brothers when he revealed his true identity to them.

“I am your brother Joseph, the one you sold into Egypt! And now, do not be distressed and do not be angry with yourselves for selling me here, because it was to save lives that God sent me ahead of you. For two years now there has been famine in the land, and for the next five years there will not be plowing and reaping. But God sent me ahead of you to preserve for you a remnant on earth and to save your lives by a great deliverance.

So then, it was not you who sent me here, but God” (Genesis 45:4-8).

Joseph’s dreams were not completely rewritten, but they went through a refining, a reshaping, and a reframing. Joseph’s response to his brothers reveals the work that God was doing in his life throughout the loss, the suffering, the loneliness, and being forgotten.

God was refining Joseph. He was removing the impurities and unwanted elements from Joseph’s heart. He was sifting Joseph.

God was reshaping the dream. Rather than the dream being about Joseph, God was reshaping it into a form that exalted and glorified God.

God was reframing the story. For twenty years, God used every experience, every hardship, and every moment of Joseph’s life to reframe the purpose of the dream. He filled in the gaps and created a solid structure for the dream to be realized.

And from this refining, reshaping, and reframing, we hear the resurrected hope, joy, and praise in Joseph’s voice. “God sent me here.” This was Joseph’s declaration of God’s hand upon his life, and the purpose of the dream God put in his heart.

***

Two years ago, nestled in the safety and comfort of my counselor’s office, she (my counselor) instructed me to close my eyes. I obeyed. For the following thirty minutes, she quietly walked me through a step-by-step exercise that pinpointed the deeper emotions I was wrestling with. I faced the disappointments, fears, insecurities, and pain that I had been working on throughout our sessions together, but this time with the objective of working my way up from them.

During this exercise, with my eyes closed in the quiet of the office, a picture came to my mind.

I was in a small wooden fishing boat floating out in the middle of the ocean. It was dark. The color of the sky, a midnight blue. Off in the distance, there were dark shadows of mountains or hills. I couldn’t see them clearly, but I knew they were there. The water around me was dark—a rippled blackness. I was standing at the helm of this small wooden boat, the wind blowing in my face, causing a chill through my body. I was weary. I couldn’t see where I was going, and I felt the weight of disappointment as I had no idea what to do next. Without any backstory as to how I ended up in this boat, I seemed to know—intuitively—that this boat represented my life.

Slowly, I turned away from the helm of the boat and lowered my body down to take a break. From the corner of my eye, I could see movement at the other end of the small vessel. While I could not make out the face of this person, I knew it was Jesus. As I was lying down, He was making His way to the front of the boat. It rocked side-to-side as my head rested on the bottom. He laid a hand on my arm as if to say, “It is okay, Amy. You can rest now. I will take care of everything.” He then stood at the helm and began to direct the boat.

Opening my eyes after seeing this picture so vividly in my mind, the profound message that I sensed in my heart was this: while my life was moving in a direction that I couldn’t understand, and dreams that I had dreamed for so long were lost in the misty fog of a nighttime sea, Jesus was still in control.

The reality hit me that God will never let our boats sink or float off into oblivion. He has a purpose for each one of us, and His desire is to use us—our gifts, our abilities, and our experiences—to bring glory to His name. He will not waste anyone or anything. My boat was in safe hands. If Jesus was at the helm, then I knew my boat was headed somewhere. I may not know exactly where, but He would carry it to a place that would bring me the greatest satisfaction.

I prayed a prayer in that moment, “God, give me a new dream. Plant new desires in my heart. Show me a new way.”

Some dreams die, and it is a permanent death.

Some dreams die in order to be resurrected.

And some dreams die so that God can breathe new life, new hope, and new purposes into them.

When we returned to South Africa in January 2024, I asked Emma Fogleman, the daughter of our colleagues, if she would be willing to create a painting of the boat picture I had in mind (I would, of course, pay her). She is a very gifted artist, and as I shared with her the meaning of this picture and how it tied into hopes and dreams and God’s sovereignty, she agreed to take the job. Emma proceeded to create the most beautiful watercolor painting of which I have named “Dream Big, Sweet Girl.” It hangs in my office.

I baked a chocolate cake today. It’s not a holiday. It’s nobody’s birthday. There is nothing of great significance to celebrate today. Sometimes we just need cake. Sometimes we need a little special something to remind us that while the mundane ordinariness of life may roll along, whipping us into step with to-do lists and obligations, there is still hope and still joy and still a little something cake-worthy.

What we can celebrate is that even in this moment, God is doing something. He doesn’t waste any part of our lives or our stories. Joseph bears witness to the powerful and redemptive work God does with our dreams. This is a cake with frosting moment. Our dreams are in His hands. And we can trust the path He has laid out for us.

So, dream big, my sweet friends.

Death and mourning. Sadness and despair.

It seemed the story was over. Christ had died and his body lay in a tomb. It was the end of an era as far as anyone could tell.

There was weeping, mourning, uncertainty, and confusion.

What next?

Mary Magdalene stood at the empty grave…certainly, there must be some explanation. Her heart gave way to tears, and she wept.

One of the most captivating statements I find in this resurrection account is the question the angels ask Mary as she is looking into the tomb…searching for answers.

“Woman, why are you crying?”

John 20:13

Good Friday calls us to pause, reflect, and contemplate the cost that Christ bore for our sins. Because we know there is a resurrection, we can so easily lose sight of the significance that mourning plays in the story.

This question, posed to Mary- “Woman, why are you crying?”- might have seemed silly or inappropriate in light of the crucifixion.

“They have taken my Lord away,” she said, “and I don’t know where they have put him.”

John 20:13

Distraught that something might have happened to the body of Jesus, Mary’s heart was wrestling with fear and grief. When she turned around, she stood face-to-face with Jesus…but she did not recognize him.

He, too, asked her why she was crying.

“Woman,” he said, “why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?”

John 20:15

She was looking for Jesus, who was standing right in front of her.

Carrying the sadness of Friday into Sunday, she could not see her Messiah. Resurrection had come, but she had yet to grasp it.

Thinking he was the gardener, she said, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.” Jesus said to her, “Mary.” She turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, “Rabboni!” (which means Teacher).

John 20:15,16

In an instant, Mary’s eyes were opened…and she could see her Lord. Overwhelmed with emotion, she reached out for him…clinging to her living Savior.

The question, “Why are you crying?” makes sense now. Why would she, or anyone, cry in the presence of the greatest miracle in history? Death defeated. Resurrection. Redemption. Complete victory.

May the only tears we shed on Easter Sunday be tears of joy!

After this encounter with Jesus, Mary ran to the disciples to share this amazing news.

“I have seen the Lord.”

John 20:18

Can you imagine their reaction? “I have seen the Lord.” No more tears. No more sorrow. Jesus is alive.

While there continues to be much to grieve in this world…death, brokenness, heartache, and sorrow…Easter reminds us that victory has come…death has been defeated…and, through both Christ’s death and resurrection, there is a greater hope.

The empty tomb was not something to weep over.

The empty tomb was the reason to rejoice.

No more crying.

“I have seen the Lord.”

Christ has risen.

Self-care in a season of chaos.

When we moved to South Africa, I had come out of a very challenging season in Malawi. It was hard on all fronts – from helping our children transition, to navigating life in a foreign country, the ever-precarious visa process, the insurgence of Covid-19, to understanding a new organization and all of the intricate policies, procedures, and bureaucracy. It was hard. But, like I have said before, we were able to find creative ways to establish stability.

Still, when we arrived in South Africa, I felt like I had run a marathon and was standing at the starting line of yet another marathon. The decision for our move was, primarily, to get help for Jasper. We knew he had some significant developmental issues, and South Africa provided the much-needed resources to help him.

As I sat in our Airbnb one afternoon, completely exhausted and weary, I remember thinking: “Can one lose resiliency? Is it possible that I am not able to bounce back from challenges like I used to?” A friend of mine called me. She and I have known each other since high school, and we are both Third Culture Kids. She said to me, as I was thinking out loud, that the question of resiliency cannot be answered when one is in the middle of transition. She encouraged me to walk slowly and take it one day at a time.

I was beginning to feel like, perhaps, God was disciplining me- that all of this hard stuff we were facing and working through was because I had, somehow, upset and disappointed God. I was stressed out trying to determine if my own frustration and anger at some of the things we had experience had been a result of me not being a good enough Christian, missionary, wife, mother, etc. While I was grateful- deeply grateful- that God had brought us to a place where we could help Jasper, and we had even found incredible resources for him, and for our family, I couldn’t shake this feeling that I was somehow responsible for how hard the past year had been. And I was worried that I might not bounce back from it.

A few months later, I was on a Zoom call with a mentor of mine, sharing with her my fears, my worries, and doubts, and she said to me, in the most empathetic and kind way, “Amy, I think you need to walk in God’s love. His yoke is easy, and his burden is light. He is not disciplining you. He wants you to know that he loves you, and he is with you.” I can’t begin to explain how the combination of my friend’s words and this mentor’s words spoke life to me. They still do. I have a small sign that I received as a gift from this mentor before we moved overseas. It says, “You are loved”, and it is a gentle reminder of this truth that I see each day when I sit at my desk.

Walk in God’s love.

Be gentle with yourself.

Breathe.

Release these burdens and cares and rest in God’s presence.

Take it one day at a time.

Transition in a season of chaos brings a kind of weariness that is difficult to describe. It overwhelms and saturates so much of our lives. Too often we brush it off, or we blame ourselves for not being strong enough or resilient enough to handle the chaos, rather than recognize that we have limits. And it is okay to have limits. It is okay to say, “I’ve reached my capacity.”

Self-care in a season of chaos, for me, looks like:

1.     Waking up in the morning and reminding myself that I am loved by God.

2.     Loving my husband.

3.     Prioritizing my family.

4.     Homecooked meals.

5.     Handing over the things that are out of my control to God.

6.     Laughter with my family.

7.     Reading books that help me understand the process I am working through.

8.     Regulating social media.

9.     Speaking kind words to myself.

10.  Letting go of guilt when saying “no” to something is the healthy thing to do.

Transition is a season. It is not a lifestyle. The missionary life tends to be more transitory in nature than a regular occupation, but constant transition is not the norm, even for missionary life. It is a season; these seasons pass.

It’s not so much that we’re afraid of change or so in love with the old ways, but it’s that place in between that we fear…It’s like being between trapezes. It’s Linus when his blanket is in the dryer. There’s nothing to hold on to.

Marilyn Ferguson, American Futurist

Transition is the in-between. It’s the letting go and the reaching out with no clear sight of the new beginning. I would add to Marilyn Ferguson’s thought that we, as Christ followers, do have something – Someone – to hold on to. The season of transition breeds all kinds of internal restlessness, and it feels overwhelming when we are in the thick of it. However, we are not alone. As we learn to pivot in the chaos, we have someone in the storm keeping the boat from sinking. Jesus never leaves us. He promises that he has gone before us, and he is also in the middle of all the mess with us…standing strong.

Resting in his love and allowing his presence to carry us through the seas of the in-between, will give us the resilience we need to keep pressing on and moving forward.

It is okay to take care of yourself in these seasons of chaos. It is okay to hit “pause” and remind yourself that you are loved by God. Rather than try to figure out if you are doing it right, or doing it well, give yourself the gift of care – whatever that might look like for you. This is not a race…you don’t lose points for those moments you pause…stop…recalibrate. One of the greatest gifts you can give to yourself- and your family- through periods of transition is self-care. Eventually, you will find yourself on the other side of the trapeze.

The activity of Jesus, from the location of where he was teaching to the content he was teaching, to the miracles he performed, was always intentional and multidimensional.

On the Sabbath Jesus was teaching in one of the synagogues…

Luke 13:10

Jesus was teaching on the Sabbath, which hardly seems out of the ordinary, but it is a critical component of this story as this would be no ordinary Sabbath. There was a bigger plan – a greater purpose for those in attendance that day – and Christ, positioning himself in the synagogue to teach, understood and could see the critical nature of this timing.

…and a woman was there who had been crippled by a spirit for eighteen years. She was bent over and could not straighten up at all.

Luke 13:11

This crippled woman was not possessed by a demon. Her affliction was a result of an oppressive spirit, crippling her from the outside. This spirit could not, and did not, possess her. She was bound up physically. The pain and the anguish she felt – and it should be noted, not because of some hidden sin in her life – was evidenced in her broken body. To shame her for her condition is likened to that of shaming an individual dealing with the crushing weight of depression or a physical illness that has plagued them for years. We tend to fault the depressed and call out their behavior as a character issue- that somehow, they are the maker of their own despair. We have no compassion, no grace, no place in our systems for those crippled by the physiological and psychological constraints of depression. We overanalyze the chronically ill. We can’t figure out why they are dealing with this disease, and why it cannot be remedied, so we accuse. We find a solution that fits our paradigm: “this person must be filled with the sin of bitterness or unforgiveness or addiction”, and we marginalize the wounded and broken that are desperately searching for grace and healing.

This woman, so bent over and so bound up physically, Christ called a “daughter of Abraham” (vs. 16). She was not an outsider. She followed the laws. She was chosen, but she could not claim her position. The enemy was tormenting her. For eighteen years, she was crippled by a despair that few of us can truly relate to. Imagine if your body took on the nature of your depression, anxiety, insecurity, and fear. Imagine the tangled mess of your internal life exposed to the outside world. Imagine the stares and raised brows when you entered a room. Or, perhaps, like this woman, your torment would cripple you to the point of being hidden and invisible. Imagine that feeling for a moment. Put yourself in her shoes.

The blessed assurance of Christ that was, and still is, our hope and security, was his awareness of all things…every detail. While this crumpled-up, tormented woman was invisible to the crowd, she was not invisible to Christ. He saw her…just like he sees you and me. He saw her in her torment; and rather than try to explain it away, or pile on more shame that somehow, she was the maker of this trouble, he had compassion on her. Jesus always had his eye on the marginalized, the unlovely, and the weak.

And his eye is ever upon on our torment, our pain, and our troubled hearts. While the crowd marginalizes, Christ draws out and redeems the broken.

When Jesus saw her, he called her forward and said to her, “Woman, you are set free from your infirmity.” Then he put his hands on her, and immediately she straightened up and praised God.

Luke 13:12, 13

This miracle is saturated with warmth, beauty, hope, justice, and indescribable love. It is a beautiful story of our Savior’s beautiful heart. Christ is always moved to compassion toward the suffering. His word and his touch are a promise of restoration, healing and redemption.

Indignant because Jesus had healed on the Sabbath, the synagogue ruler said to the people, “There are six days for work. So come and be healed on those days, not on the Sabbath.”

Luke 13:14

The synagogue ruler passive aggressively spoke to the people crowding in to see Jesus and to be touched by their Savior. Rather than speak to Jesus directly he told the people that their needs held very little value in light of the Sabbath…the holy day. He set the day over the need. He was bound to the system, giving it far greater authority and honor than the One who was the giver of the Sabbath. People became objects, stripped of their humanity, serving the system, rather than the system serving their needs.

There is nothing new under the sun (Ecclesiastes 1:9). From this ancient context – this miraculous event in a synagogue – to today, we see that history repeats itself over and over. Manmade systems will all eventually follow the same trajectory. What may have, at one time, been implemented with sincerity and faith, will eventually become a burden too heavy to bear. The wisdom of man cannot hold the brokenness of this world. It takes the wisdom of Christ, and the redemption of the cross, to carry with compassion, grace and mercy, the weight of the crippled believer. True Christianity places the person- the individual- above the system.

And that is exactly what Christ did for this woman.

The Lord answered him, “You hypocrites! Doesn’t each of you on the Sabbath untie his ox or donkey from the stall and lead it out to give it water? Then should not this woman, a daughter of Abraham, whom Satan has kept bound for eighteen years, be set free on the Sabbath day from what bound her?”

Luke 13:15, 16

Jesus responded directly to the synagogue ruler. He didn’t speak to the crowd as the ruler did. Jesus wasn’t going to triangulate and turn this into a match of wits with the crowd playing the intermediary. He took up this case with the one who was making the accusation, and he made it clear that the system, meant to bring hope and rest to the weary, was abusively broken.

In the world and in the church we are constantly in peril of loving systems more than we love God and more than we love men.

William Barclay

It was actually legal to allow animals who are typically bound up, to be led from their stalls to water on the Sabbath. Jesus rebuked this whole paradigm. At what point did these rulers subordinate the freedom and restoration of a human life under that of these animals used for work? When did an animal hold more value than a human?

Jesus made it clear that, even though he could have waited until the following day to heal this woman, it was unthinkable to allow her to suffer one more minute…especially in the presence of the Messiah.

Jesus Christ came for moments just like this one. He came for individuals just like this crippled woman. He didn’t come to impress the high and mighty. He wasn’t on the lookout for the influencers and the beautiful people. He came for the broken – both internally and externally – the marginalized, the hopeless, the dying, the dead and diseased. He came for the wealthy and the poor, the hungry and the well-fed. He came for the hearts desperate for truth, for peace, for hope, for a Savior.

Jesus always looked for the cast-offs and the marginalized. He sought them out. Even when a poor woman touched his garment and received healing, he knew. His eyes and his ears were dialed in to the sights and sounds of the least of these. And he called them to himself. His compassion and his deep love brought them healing, and most importantly, redemption.

He has called us to do the same. He has called us to seek out the lost, the dying, and the lame. He has commissioned every believer to “Go…and make disciples.” (Matthew 28:19). Regardless of whatever title we may or may not carry, we are all commissioned to bring the lost to Jesus…to help untie the ropes and the constraints that have bound them up and lead them to the living water.

And for those who are bound up, crumpled over and distressed, Christ hears you and sees you. If you have been marginalized, shoved to the side, forgotten or made invisible by an impossible system, I know that Jesus is sitting right in the middle of it, and he knows where you are. He is not unaware. His heart is moved to compassion, and his hands are ready to touch you and heal you. After Christ put his hands on the crippled woman, she immediately straightened up. Immediately. His power to redeem the broken spaces of your life is immediate. And it is complete.

Rest assured that Christ’s power is enough to untie the ropes and set us free. He doesn’t waste time.

When he said this, all his opponents were humiliated, but the people were delighted with all the wonderful things he was doing.

Luke 13:17

The people…that crowd in the synagogue…were delighted. I find myself delighted in picturing this moment. And I find myself walking in delight, knowing that Christ is still redeeming the crippled and doing it in the most unconventional ways.

Ordinary is highly under-rated.

It seems the sincere longing for significance has pushed past contentment in doing a job well done, to that of being a world changer…influencer…and platform-creator. It is not enough, anymore, to do the hard and consistent daily work of investing our lives into meaningful, yet oftentimes, ordinary endeavors. Today, we are driven to be seen…to be heard…to position ourselves for greater significance and greater influence. Ordinary is boring and old-school, and it certainly doesn’t illicit the kind of attention that so many of us are seeking today.

And yet, there is something extraordinary about the ordinary.

My days are not so impressive on the outside. In this season of life, I am in the throes of child-rearing, home-managing and integrating culture into the impressionable minds and hearts of our children. I grocery shop, do the laundry, plan meals for the week, cook, clean, pack lunches, help with homework, create schedules, maintain order, educate my children on the importance of table manners and etiquette (this is never-ending work!), balance the checkbook, keep the budget, go on coffee dates with Joel and the kids, and oversee the day-in/day-out lives of my family, while developing relationships and ongoing connections with the people in our sphere.  It’s not all that exciting.

It is very ordinary.

And while my calendar boasts of a very ordinary life, there is something quite extraordinary happening between the lines and the dates, the appointments and the pen strokes. The lives of our children are being shaped, formed, developed, and discipled. Within the ordinary, God is doing extraordinary work. It is tempting to want to create for myself a profile that makes me look special and significant, but in doing so, it minimizes the good work that is taking place within the constraints of the ordinary. Ordinary is highly under-rated. Ordinary invites the time and space for deeper relationships, honest conversations, and focused attention.

Maybe I am feeling inspired to write this because I need to remind myself of these timeless truths, and maybe there is someone out there that needs to read it too. Maybe we both need the gentle reminder that our significance is not written in the headlines, but rooted in the ordinary work we are doing right now…in this moment…at the dinner table…in the bedtime prayers…in the middle of the meltdown…during those car ride conversations and marathon Lego days…in the tone of that email…or the slow pace of the project we’ve been overseeing. We need that little voice pulling us out of the drive for external significance and back into the precious gift of these ordinary days.

While the world craves more hype, more incentives to participate, more flash, more enticements and rewards, my heart is craving a more quiet and ordinary life. The world is temperamental…it shifts too quickly and too impulsively. The world (and this includes the church/ministry world) is becoming more and more addicted to performance – lights, cameras, action. Trying to keep up with it all creates instability, insecurity and a frenetic pace that eventually leads to burn out. I am, quite bluntly, less impressed with all the hype, glam and glitz, and more drawn to the daily and consistent rhythms of the ordinary.

The world is saying, “Speed up!” and my heart is saying, “Slow down!”.

Christ’s life was, in many regards, ordinary. He talked to his followers, not about how to build a platform or create a movement, but about bearing the weight of the cross. His invitation was to pick up their cross and follow him, and through the New Testament Scriptures, we know where that path led them…not to fame, fortune or a flashy title, but to suffering, marginalization, and death. The ordinary means – producing extraordinary fruit – of walking with people, listening, daily discipleship and the cross of suffering was, and still is, the way of Christ.

Obedience to God’s ways of bringing about the kingdom is the only way, even when those ways seem small, obscure, and weak. Even when no one notices. Even when our kingdom work can’t be captured and packaged for a ready-made inspirational social media update. Someone earnestly desiring to do great things for God can have all the right motives but all the wrong mechanisms. Jesus’ obedience tells us that mechanisms matter – if godly ends are pursued by ungodly means, the whole project will be ruined.

– Katelyn Beaty, Celebrities for Jesus

I have thought a lot about the cost of obedience and the return to the ordinary.

Obedience is, in the very truest sense, letting go of our own will and surrendering it to Jesus. There is nothing very glamourous about that. We step off of platforms rather than hoist ourselves up to be seen.

There are men and women caught up in the fast running current of trying to find significance through extraordinary means. There are a great number, I can only imagine, that want to do great things for God, and wrestle with the ordinary days in which they are living. There is an altruistic desire to please God, while at the same time a fear that a hidden life in Christ will amount to being forgotten by the world.

And yet, if we really want to get down to it…to the reality of what following and serving Christ is all about it comes to this:

He must become greater; I must become less.

John 3:30

That statement: I must become less, is not a directive to become less than who God has created you to be; that somehow wallowing in the dirt and lowering oneself to nothingness is the key to pleasing God. But rather, becoming less is putting ourselves in the right order and right place with God. It is releasing the striving and driving towards worldly acceptance and acknowledgement into God’s hands, and taking the ordinary tasks that he gives us each day and carrying them out to the best of our ability so that God gets the glory…God gets the greatness…so that God is seen above our talents, gifts and charisma.

In my ordinary days I find such encouragement when I see that God is using me to disciple and shape our children to follow Christ. That’s a big deal. It’s not always visible to the outside world. This is a slow and weighty work.

Your ordinary will look different than mine, but it is incredibly significant. It is the means by which God will do extraordinary things. It may never make the headlines, and it may never evoke a rush on social media, but if your ordinary work points the world to Christ and brings Him glory, then it is extraordinary.

The significance of the ordinary is not how amazingly we can do it, or how creatively we can brand it; the significance is that this is how God chooses to do his most astounding work; His quiet, steady, and world-changing work. He uses you and me. He takes the materials in our hands, the season of our lives, our brokenness and all of our flaws, and says, “Follow me.”

Stop striving.

Slow down.

Let the God do the extraordinary through our ordinariness.

It is God who makes us significant, not all the kingdoms we create.

Rest in that.

And rest in the precious gift of these ordinary days.