The rabbit

Sunday morning, and, feeling a little dazed, I prepare to go to church. I pause to look out at snow softly drifting, everything moving as in a slowed-down dream. I’m not acclimated to worship services with sanitizer and masks, to singing hymns scattered and distanced, to the hesitation and pulling back from handshakes and hugs, all not quite familiar, strangely alien and disorienting. It might be easier to worship on the couch through a laptop. But we’ve decided that it would be good to be with people, and so I get ready.

Phil’s voice comes up the stairs, looking for me. “Kristin? I could use some help.” We find each other, he just in from outside, cold rolling off his thick orange Carhart jacket. Not until I get close do I see what he cradles in his arms. Brown and gray mottled fur, brown eyes large in a small face – a rabbit. I reach out. Clumped fur has been deeply chilled in our backyard creek. I feel quivering movement. This fragile small body has the breath of life in it, for now. I gently pull the cord of Phil’s jacket out of its face. 

Phil continues to nestle the shivering clump of fur while we go out to the barn and find the box where we’ve raised chicks, and we find the heat lamp, and a pile of straw. We nestle the rabbit in a straw bed, set up the lamp. We’ve started saying “she,” though we don’t know. She’s tried moving her legs but can’t seem to right herself. Phil says that in the creek, she’d struggle to climb up the bank and then fall back in, hurt, or as if she’d lost her sense of balance. Now she lies in the straw, a small mottled pile, eyes sometimes open, sometimes closed.

Thirty minutes later, we put on masks and walk into church, just in time. Find our distanced place in a pew. Sing songs and pray prayers, themed this morning on the glory of God in creation. We consider a section of Scripture which teaches God’s people to care for the land through the ancient practice of Sabbath. Our pastor unfolds a vision. The Sabbath is not just for people. It is also for the good of the earth, for the animals; actually, our practice of Sabbath can even bless the wild animals in our land. 

The rabbit. 

God looked at his creation – sun and stars, earth and water, trees and fields, birds and fish, livestock and wild animals, and he said “It is good.”  Then, placing Adam and Eve into this creation, he gave them the privilege and responsibility to tend to it, care for it. The goodness should have flowed out, out and out from this garden, expanding to fill the whole world. But wreckage and devastation and calamity snuck in. And ever since, the beauty and goodness of God’s creation has been shot through with decay, groaning, pain and death.

One small rabbit, through some trauma, tumbled into nearly freezing water in our yard and couldn’t escape, until someone saw, leaned down, and lifted her out. Brown eyes, pink-tinged ears, and breath in tiny lungs – these reveal the glory of God. And the injury and freezing and quivering fear reveal the tragic brokenness of the world.

Sabbath shapes us to seek the well-being of all creation. We slow down. We walk instead of run, talk instead of scroll through newsfeed. We notice what surrounds us.

The Lord of the Sabbath gave breath to the rabbit now shivering in my barn. The miracle of life co-exists, for now, with the violent rupture of death. Jesus took on a body to bear the groaning of creation with us and for us. And now he invites us, in our limited, weak ways, to use our own hands to participate in his healing, his restoration, his enterprise of making all things new. Our care for God’s creation is an act of faith and hope in his redemption, an affirmation of all he has done and will do.

Caring for a freezing rabbit can be devotion to God.

After the service we talk with friends, seeing some for the first time in months, hearing their news. The violence of this groaning world has ravaged some of them. Calamitous decay invades their bodies, shaking their lives. As they suffer, they look in faith to the one who will restore everything. They groan along with all creation, and they also gaze forward in hope to the day when the children of God will be revealed and all will be made new. 

We drive home through the quietness of winter fields. Fresh snow touches hay bales. Trees, dormant but alive, stand like steady sentinels. Small animals, hidden from us, shelter from the cold. We pass homes that hold stories of sorrow and hope. We have been moved by the suffering and faith that we have just heard from friends. Thinking about them, our minds also are on the rabbit. Will it still be breathing? Or will its life have perished under the heat lamp in our barn? 

We open the door, look down into the box. The rabbit’s eyes are open, soft and brown. She sits more uprightly than when we’d left. The fur now looks a bit fluffy, and we can appreciate the beautiful coloring. She seems still, very still. But yes, there is the slight movement of breath. She takes a little water from Phil’s finger. 

The God who counts the stars and knows them by name also fashioned this rabbit. The harsh dangers of the disrupted world have nearly killed it. But Jesus has come to his creation to undo the curse. He intends to heal the hurting, free the captives, and make all things new. Gladness and joy will overtake us. Death will be swallowed up by life. He invites us to join him in this redemption, little by little and where we can. In our own small ways, we try to care for land and rabbits, as well as people, with faith, hope and love. 

The fragile rabbit in the barn is my burning bush for today, a place where God touches earth and speaks. Cosmic theology lies in straw in a corner of a Michigan barn.

one day later, looking so much better

All Good Gifts Around Us

While shopping yesterday, I noticed small boxes of white lights featured on a shelf in the front of the store. Then, looking for candles, I discovered that many had been sold out.

Where I live in the northern hemisphere, light is slowly slipping out of the morning and afternoon skies. Tomorrow, the end of daylight savings time will accelerate the feeling that we’re entering darkness. This year, that darkness feels even more pressing. We’re isolated, and weighed down by social strife and division. Holiday planning that sometimes lightens our spirits is fraught with uncertainty.

It’s time to think about pushing back the dark.

White lights are good; candles are good. And I invite you to join me in another dark-fighting tool: thankfulness.

Thankfulness is not wishful thinking or denial of what’s hard and hurtful in this world and in our lives. It’s acknowledgement that those hardships come with gifts to help us sustain them, gifts that surround us but that we sometimes fail to recognize. Thankfulness helps me recognize, again, that I’m an undeserving recipient of so much grace. It helps me see through the murky darkness to the good that surrounds me, including the people who contribute so much to my life.

The staple of my thanksgiving practice happens first thing in the morning, when I sit at my desk with a cup of coffee, think over the previous day, and write one thing that I’m thankful for. Sometimes these are specific and tangible (the way a heron landed in the top of a tree, the little happy prance in my dog’s run, a text from one of my children), sometimes broad and transcendent (taking it in that I’ve gotten to live another year in the October splendor of this world.) During the day, I look for these things. The next morning, I choose one and condense it into a few words to write into a small weekly planner. At the end of the year I read over all them, greatly heartened to remember these good gifts, many of which I otherwise would have forgotten. 

Lately, I’m also trying to practice more in-the-moment thankfulness throughout the day. When the voice in my head says “I can’t…” or drips complaining, self-pity, or anxiety, I try to turn off that faucet by converting the thought into “I’m thankful for…” I do a quick survey of what’s good in my world in that moment, see it, and say it out loud. And my inner world changes a little bit.

The more we cultivate thankfulness, the more we see to be thankful for. Thankfulness muscles respond to exercise. 

Of course, the practice of thankfulness isn’t the invention of modern psychology. The Bible is shot through with exhortations to be thankful. It also reveals expressions of thankfulness from people in all kinds of circumstances, happy and hard - Miriam, Hannah, David, Hezekiah, Jonah, Daniel, Ezra, Mary, Anna, a nameless healed leper, Paul. Jesus makes a point of public thanksgiving as he demonstrates how he is turning back the darkness of the world. 

Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever. (Psalm 106:1)

Thankfulness isn’t just a psychological tool that can increase our happiness. Paying attention to what is good around us can be like tracing a beam of light up to its glorious source. (Thank you, C.S. Lewis, for the image.)

All good gifts around us are sent from heaven above, so thank the Lord, oh thank the Lord, for all his love.

Here’s an invitation: If you’d like to try a thanksgiving activity for the next month, let me know, and I’ll send you a one-page sheet with one short prompt of something to look for and be thankful for each day for 30 days. kristin@emmausbiblicalcounseling.com

Walk through the valley

Psalm 23. I recite it to myself. I talk about it it with others. Who knows how many times I’ve read it. But I just noticed something that caught my attention. 

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…

I walk….I don’t sit down and give up. I don’t stay in one place. I don’t wait for the bus to come pick me up. I keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Walking isn’t dramatic; it’s not especially fast. It’s steady. But it matters. Gradually, step by step, it moves you towards your destination.

I walk through…I’m not going around in circles, around and around, lost in the futility of an endless dead-end. I’m not going in reverse, trying to get out of the valley by going back to where I came from. I’m walking through. This valley has an end point, there, ahead of me. The walk is not endless, and there’s something waiting for me on the other side. Knowing this can keep me going, one step at a time. 

The Christian life includes the idea of being on a journey. In the 17th century, John Bunyan made this famous in Pilgrim’s Progress (which he wrote in jail - not a place where it might feel that you’re going anywhere - suggesting that the journey is sometimes in our own souls). In the 20th century, Elizabeth Elliot reminded us of the nature of walking by talking about a favorite poem with the refrain “Do the next thing.”

Just keep taking the next step forward. This idea has helped me in times of feeling dark or overwhelmed. I don’t have to do everything. Just the next thing. Step, step, step.

We’re not in an endless loop going nowhere. We are pilgrims headed to a destination. Sometimes the road is pleasant, sometimes challenging. Sometimes maybe a little boring. Sometimes so hard it’s all we can do to pick our way along. At times we are surrounded by dappled shade and gentle breezes, and we look up and feel our hearts lift with a glimpse of birds careening in a big blue sky. At other times we feel oppressed by the heat pounding down, or struggling to breathe because of the chill seeping into our bones. At times it’s so dark that we feel like we will surely fall or be attacked by something lurking in the shadows. Maybe there are breaks along the way, pauses to catch our breath and get nourishment we need to keep going. And then we step out again. Our feet are sore and our energy feels like it might give out. But we are walking through. We are going somewhere. 

Are we alone on this walk? Sometimes we’re grateful for the companions with us along the way. And then at other times, feelings of isolation can make the walk harder - we can feel utterly alone. But, David assures us, we are never really alone. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, you are with me. The Good Shepherd promises his companionship, help, and protection.

And then, after we have walked through the valley, to our utter thrill…

The ransomed of the LORD shall return and come to Zion with singing; 

everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; 

they shall obtain gladness and joy,  

and sorrow and sighing shall flee away 

(Isaiah 35:10)

How long?

Why, LORD, do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?

Mothers and sons torn apart by deathly virus and murderous violence. Hearts bleeding with grief, again and again. Terror, darkness, despair. How long, O Lord?

His mouth is filled with cursing and deceit and oppression; under his tongue are mischief and iniquity. He sits in ambush in the villages; in hiding places he murders the innocent. His eyes stealthily watch for the helpless; he lurks in ambush like a lion in his thicket; he lurks that he may seize the poor; he seizes the poor when he draws him into his net. The helpless are cursed, sink down, and fall by his might.

So it has always been. From the time when Cain hated his brother to death until now. Country lanes and city streets, homes and school playgrounds. Darkness covers the choking of life. Evil is embedded in us, pressed down through generations.

It is right to be disturbed at the murderous cursing, deceit and oppression that we see in our world.

But, also: Is it I, Lord?

Cursing not only in others, but in the quickly rising anger when my plans are thwarted or my comforts threatened. Cursing as I cast stones though I sin in similar ways. Cursing as I look down on others and consider my perspective the right one - automatically, without even realizing I’m doing it.

Deceit not only in others, but in my willingness to be seen as righteous or wise. Deceit in instinctively cultivating an image that allows dark pockets to stay hidden in my heart. Subtle deceit perhaps even while writing a prayer-lament which I will soon publicly post.

Oppression not only in others but in my apathy when it seems too much to bear or infringes too much on my comfort. Oppression in whatever I’m grasping and don’t even realize it because I don’t want to see. Oppression in my paralysis when I see some of the complexities and don’t want to enter in because I may over-simplify and get it wrong.

I do cry mercy for the oppressed and justice for the oppressor. I also know that I am not innocent.

But you do see, for you note mischief and vexation, that you may take it into your hands. The victims commit themselves to you; you are the helper of the fatherless. Break the arm of the wicked and evildoer; call the evildoer to account for his wickedness that would not otherwise be found out.

Call the evildoer to account…as the psalmist cried so many years ago, so people cry today. But what a way you have chosen to bring justice to evildoers.

Jesus, you also were hated to death, the breath slowly pressed out of you, by oppressors trying to hold on to their power. You were killed by evil that was both systemic and personal. Your bones were broken. But the arm of the wicked is broken by your death. Somehow, in ways beyond our understanding, the accounting we cry out for was accomplished on the cross. You are not, after all, standing far off. You are not hiding yourself.

O LORD, you hear the desire of the afflicted; you will strengthen their heart; you will incline your ear to do justice to the fatherless and the oppressed, so that man who is of the earth may strike terror no more.

We are afflicted. Our hearts are weak. The fatherless and the oppressed grieve deeply. Man strikes terror. In the natural course of this fallen world, evil leads to more evil. I hurt you because you hurt me, on and on and on, digging a deepening hole that we cannot, on our own, climb out of. We are right to seek justice. And we have glimpses of hope - luminous, glorious movements of forgiveness and love break through. But we know that the depth of evil and grief is beyond our capacity to change. We are utterly dependent on you to be the deliverer and the judge.

Arise, O LORD; O God, lift up your hand; forget not the afflicted.

Our eyes are on you.

Lord, have mercy.

(Italicized text from Psalm 10)

Going for a walk

Setting: a road leading out of Jerusalem, on the first day of the resurrection of Jesus.

That very day, two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, which lay about seven miles from Jerusalem. 

One of them was named Cleopas and the other was a friend, maybe his wife. They had been caught up in the rising excitement of following Jesus, had perhaps followed him to Jerusalem. They had hoped that he would be the one to save Israel. And now, they were returning home, brokenhearted, to try to pick up the pieces of their lives. 

A deeply troubling present and an unknown future. We can relate to these two on their sad walk. 

They were discussing with each other all the various things that had taken place. As they were discussing, and arguing with each other, Jesus himself approached and walked with them. Their eyes, though, were prevented from recognizing him. 

What has happened? What is happening now? How to make sense of the crushing of hopes and dreams? What will the religious leaders and Roman occupiers do with those who had been followers of Jesus? What’s next? What should we do? Will we make it? When life suddenly changes, we find ourselves cast into a world of fear and uncertainty, sadness and danger. Life has changed. Everything needs to be re-interpreted.  

“You’re obviously having a very important discussion on your walk,” he said; “What’s it all about?” 

They stood still, a picture of gloom. 

Then one of them, Cleopas by name, answered him, “You must be the only person around Jerusalem who doesn’t know what’s been going here these last few days.” 

“What things?” he asked.

(Please see the humor here! Don’t you think Jesus is enjoying himself?)

And then, the unrecognized Jesus joins their walk. They tell him about their devastated hope, about the crucifixion of the one they thought was going to save Israel. They tell him the confusing story of a missing body and a vision of angels. He listens to their pain and confusion, then says,

“Don’t you see? This is what had to happen: The Messiah had to suffer and come into his glory!”

So he began with Moses, and with all the prophets, and explained to them the things about himself throughout the whole Bible.

Their hearts burned within them as words they’d known came alive with new meaning. The pieces started to come together into a more glorious picture than their most hopeful dreams had imagined. Victory through suffering, life through death, and a salvation more vast than temporary deliverance from Roman occupation. 

Did they see the fields they were walking past? Did they hear the song of spring birds? Did they notice the lengthening shadows as the sun started to reach the horizon? As evening drew near, the group of three reached Emmaus. Cleopas and his companion couldn’t bear the thought of parting company with this man, and they asked him to stay. 

He came in, broke bread and blessed it. And just as they recognized him, he vanished.

Cleopas and his friend were left, amazed, at the table with the broken bread. I imagine that at first they must have stared at each other in astonishment. And then they talked about their experience of the afternoon: Do you remember how our hearts were burning inside in us as he talked to us on the road, as he opened up the Bible for us? Then, even though it was evening after a long day, they got up and started the seven mile walk in reverse, back to Jerusalem, to tell the others that they had seen the living Christ. 

When we have to walk through times of anxiety, uncertainty, loss and grief, we talk with each other and try to make sense of our world’s trouble. As we walk together (whether in person or through phones and screens), let’s also be alert for the presence of Another. He just might come to us in the song of a bird, the words on a page, or the company of a friend. He invites us to share our confusion and anxiety with him. And now, through the Holy Spirit, he promises to be always with us, until the end. We might not recognize him right away. We keep walking, step by step, hour by hour, day by day. In his perfect time, he will open our eyes. And we will be amazed.

(translation of Luke 24:13-35 by N.T. Wright.)

Words of life

I try to write something for this blog each month. So of course I should post something in March 2020, this intensely tumultuous, significant time. 

But I’ve been stuck.

Why?

In part, I’ve been taking in so many words, morning to night. Probably many of you have, too. News that’s hard and heavy or indignant and outraged, all day, everywhere. Comments and tweets and articles with opinions, emotions, experiences. So many words. Will it really help for me to add more to the pile? I love words but am perhaps a little weary of them right now. Maybe instead of generating more words, I should encourage us to listen to the spring birds. Maybe what we most need is to sit quietly. 

And also...Probably like many of you, my thoughts and emotions have been shifting, erratic, unstable. It’s not that I don’t have ideas of what to write.  I have many, swinging wildly sometimes, and I don’t know which ones to try to capture.

And also…What if what I write doesn’t resonate with what you’re experiencing? If I write about anxiety when you’re feeling peaceful, or write hopefully when you’re feeling angry, or write with faith when you’re experiencing doubts–will it be helpful? When having a conversation with one person, I know more of what kind of words might give grace. When I’m writing a blog post for many, it’s harder to hit the mark. It seems that it might be good to hold back, to be quick to listen and slow to speak.

But. 

God has given us the gift of language. He communicates with us through words. We don’t live by bread alone but by every word that comes from his mouth (Matthew 4:4) And he’s given us the gift of words to communicate with each other, not just for exchanging information, but to share ourselves. Some other ways that we share life are less accessible when practicing quarantine during a pandemic. But we can still share ourselves with words.

People who had been watching Jesus were distrubed by some of the confusing things he was saying. (“Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him”). He wasn’t performing according to their expectations. (When would he use his power to overthrow Rome?) Many of them, disappointed or annoyed, drifted away. He asked his closest friends if they wanted to leave as well.

Peter answered: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life, and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God.” (This story is in John 6).

Jesus gives us words of eternal life. We may be confused, anxious, frustrated, grieving, dismayed–or happy and hopeful. He understands. And he gives us words for all of it. Words to express grief (Psalm 6, 71) and words of confident hope (Psalm 91, Romans 8). Words of comfort (Isaiah 41:10, John 16:33) and words of challenge (Luke 12:22-26, John 13:34). His eternally living words give what our souls need today, throughout this time of trial, and always. 

Through these last several weeks, I’ve been carrying on in my Bible reading plan. Each morning, my app tells me what to read, and I read it. As I’ve read Numbers and Deuteronomy, Luke, Psalms and Proverbs, I’ve marveled many times at how beautifully and relevantly the passages for that day speak to our current situation and to my own needs. I know my experience is happening all over the world, as it has for millenia. Morning by morning, God speaks to his people through his words. Truly this Word is living and active.

How very good of God to give us words.

Today, may you discover words that give you life, and share them with others.

Your word is a lamp for my feet and a light on my path. (Psalm 119:105)



Dust to dust

Before the mountains were born or you brought forth the whole world,

    from everlasting to everlasting you are God. (Psalm 90:2)

On Sunday evening, I spent time with friends studying Psalm 90. God is eternal. People, by contrast, are like grass that springs up in the morning and is dry and withered by evening. I was comforted to think of my frailty in the light of God’s eternity. It was like gazing at a sky full of stars, looking up at a majestic mountain range, or standing at the edge of the endlessly colored depths of the Grand Canyon. Peace can slip in when our smallness is placed next to the vast and glorious. 

On Wednesday evening, I walked up the aisle of the stained glass chapel and received ashes on my forehead: Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return. Again, I knew peace in the exposure of my weakness and need. 

It can be a relief to acknowledge that we are frail.

ASH WEDNESDAY AND THE IMPOSTER SYNDROME

The imposter syndrome is “a psychological pattern in which one doubts one's accomplishments and has a persistent internalized fear of being exposed as a fraud.”  

The inner voice of imposter syndrome can sound like this:

“I must not fail.” (Success paradoxically can add to anxiety, as it increases the pressure of responsible visibility.)

“I am a fake.”  (I’m afraid for the day when I will be exposed for projecting an image of being more competent than I really am.). 

“I have to be the best, perfect, a superhero.” 

Imposter syndrome is associated with anxiety, depression, and shame.

Lurking under the feelings of imposter syndrome is the question “Am I good enough?” I’m driven to keep up a pretense that makes it appear that I am, but underneath, I am terrified that it’s a lie that will someday be exposed. 

There are different ways to think about imposter syndrome. But for today how about this:

What if we experience imposter syndrome because we actually are frauds? What if our lurking fears that we are trying to live a lie is because we are trying to live a lie? 

Satan enticed Eve to be an imposter–to pretend to be something that she was not created to be. The disasters that plague the world started with humans pursuing the lie that we can be like God. But we are not God. And trying to be God brings with it terrible burdens.

Satan entices all of us as he enticed Eve, holding before our eyes a vision of being like God. He invites us to independence, authonomy, and the praise and power that come from the kingdoms of the world. We’re all susceptible to this temptation. Jesus was the only one who completely resisted it. We hunger to be self-sufficient, strong, respected and admired. We want to be like God. But deep down, we know we are dust. 

What if I were more free to say that I am weak, needy, dependent? What if I could simply acknowledge my weakness and failures (including the ways that I labor under the insecurity of trying to look better than I am)? 

What if I were content to be no more and no less than who God has made me? 

I am dependent. The breath of life comes from outside of me. He is God; I am human. He is vast; I am small. He is faithful; I am fickle. He holds my life in his hands, and I can rest in peace.   

“Humility relieves you of the awful stress of trying to be superior all the time.”(David Brooks, The Road to Character)

blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Sources for Imposter Syndrome:

https://hbr.org/2008/05/overcoming-imposter-syndrome

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Impostor_syndrome#cite_note-Langford19932-1

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/real-women/201809/the-reality-imposter-syndrome

Book of Common Prayer for Ash Wednesday

https://bcponline.org/SpecialDays/ashwed.html

Sun-Seeking

“Light is sweet, and it pleases the eyes to see the sun.” (Ecclesiastes 11:7)

Inspiration for this post came when I looked at the weather forecast. It appears that those living in southeast Michigan may not have the pleasure of seeing the sun today. Or tomorrow. In fact, according to the icons on my phone, the sun may not appear again for a full week.

I love living in Michigan, for many reasons. But this time of year can be tough. For me, it’s not so much the cold, but the gray, a heavy mantle that seems to suppress energy and good cheer.

Many people (at least those of us not in the tropics) know something about Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), a depression that arrives most often in the winter. Its causes are unknown–one site says that decreased sunlight might “throw the biological clock out of whack.” Or maybe something about the light changes production of serotonin and melatonin, or maybe it’s Vitamin D. Perhaps all we really need to know is what Solomon so aptly observed 3,000 years ago: Light is sweet, and it pleases the eyes to see the sun. The cloudy cold of winter sometimes brings low energy, decreased motivation, sluggishness (or agitation), sleep problems, lack of concentration, overeating, and social withdrawal. How we’re affected can range in severity from a mid-winter mood slump to clinically diagnosable depression.

Popular recommendations for treating SAD include advice such as “exercise regularly,” “take up a winter sport,””be socially active,” and “plan a trip” (to somewhere sunnier). Certainly, do these if you can. But when you feel like you can barely get off the couch to go to bed, these big goals can all seem unreachable.

When I feel overwhelmed, it helps me to think small. If tackling the mess in the kitchen makes me want to give up before I even start, I’ll set a timer for 10 minutes and see how much I can get done in that time. Usually, that’s enough to nudge me through the slump. Lists also help. If I write something down, I’m more likely to do it, especially on those days when getting started feels harder.

So, for those who want to join me in small push-backs against the gray, here are some ideas that don’t include daily full-body gym workouts or a big vacation. If you choose to do one or two today, or tomorrow, or the next day, it might open some space for light to sneak in through the gray.

Ten light-seekers that take ten minutes

1. Go outside for ten minutes. Apparently outdoor light really does affect us differently, even if the sun has to pass through banks of gray before it reaches us. 

2. Write a list of people you’d like to get together with (coffee, lunch, a walk…) Reach out to one of them and suggest it.

3. Make another list: “Things I’ve been needing to get done.” Start one of them. (For me: scheduling doctor appointments and a troubleshooting slot at the Apple store.)

4. Observe your surroundings and notice what is beautiful,. Be attentive with all senses! (For me this morning: The patterns of winter branches against the sky, and a bird song that sounded like the beginning of spring.)

5. Schedule thankfulness. There’s been attention recently on studies that show connections between gratitude and happiness. Decide on 3-5 times during the day when you can stop, take a breath, and say “I am grateful for…” You might set a timer for these times as reminders, and it also helps if you write them down.

6. Choose a piece of Scripture, hymn, or song lyrics to memorize. Write down the words and put somewhere where you’ll find it later in the day, for repeated practice. (I’m working on Psalm 27 now, and my husband is learning “Hallajljah, Praise Jehovah.” Memorizing words with music gives the extra gift of stocking your memory storehouse for the future–music lasts a long time.)

7. Look through photos. Choose one that makes you happy and put it where you’ll see it, maybe taped by a desk or as computer wallpaper. Five minutes watching a slideshow of nature photos can also a good perspective-broadening gift.

8. Make your technology work for you in other ways: Create a playlist of life-affirming music that lightens your heart. What makes you want to dance in the kitchen? (I listened to “Spring” from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons this morning and almost thought that I was on a gondola in sunny Venice). Or watch a short video that brings peace or a smile (One of my favorites, from before flash mobs were popular.)

9. Start preparing breakfast and/or lunch the night before, making it one step easier to eat healthily the next day. (I also like to set up with my morning spiritual routine. Putting the coffeemaker on a timer and setting out Bible, journal, and candle on my desk make it more inviting to leave my bed in the morning.)

10. Choose one of the longer activities below, find a time for it, and put it in your calendar. 

Five light-seekers that take an hour (or a little more)

1. Go to a library or bookstore just to wander and relax. These two places never fail to lift my spirits, but you can adapt this and make your destination another location that might revive your sluggish creativity–Lowe’s if you’re energized by house projects, a greenhouse to daydream about the summer garden, art/craft store if a row of colored pencils and pastels can make your heart sing.

2. Visit a botanical garden or art museum or gallery. It fills the senses with life, color, beauty.

3. Head to the grocery store for healthy foods that you’ll enjoy eating. Maybe a new vegetable, a wholesome frozen meal, the yogurt you’ve been meaning to eat more of, or a vitamin or supplement that you’ve not gotten around to trying.

4. Buy two bouquets of flowers or two small plants. Keep one for yourself. Bring the other to someone who would be blessed by it. Having a boost of color and green life indoors is wonderfully cheering against the backdrop of gray. Someone brought me tulips last week. I put them on a table, replacing a bowl of pinecones and gold ornaments lingering from Christmas, and was amazed at how it changed the feel of the space. 

5. Research and purchase a light therapy box or lamp, which mimic natural light. It can be hard to measure how helpful they are, but it seems like it can’t hurt to have some extra light. 

Most important

I hope these lists are hopeful and helpful, that you can choose one thing to try, and don’t feel disheartened by reading all those ideas at once. If you are feeling overwhelmed by the lists, skip them for now, and please just think about these two:

• Don’t hold yourself back from getting help. If you feel increasingly alone, isolated, and hopeless, please reach out to doctor, counselor, friend or family who can walk with you.

• God is patient and kind. He’s patient with you, and so you can be patient with yourself. It’s going to be okay. Spring comes after winter, and the sun will return. In the words of David Powlison, "The mercies of God in Jesus Christ give certainty that sadness does not get last say."

P.S. One more thing

If incentives help you, how about deciding on a goal that spans a few days or weeks of these sun-seeking activities and plan a treat for yourself when you’ve reached it? For example: Try to tally up 50 of these fight-the-gray activities (with some repeated), or do each of them at least once by the end of February. Local friends: Tell me about it if you reach either of these goals, and I’ll buy you a drink at the Common Cup!

Listening and learning

I started noticing it a year or two ago. Whenever I heard or read the word police, it seemed to be paired with the word brutality. Police brutality, police brutality, police brutality. I heard it on the radio, read it on social media, encountered it at church. The noun police, turned into an adjective used to describe brutality, as if these two always fit together. I noticed it, and it bothered me.

Why did I notice, and why did it bother me?

My son was in college, studying criminal justice with a goal of a career in law enforcement. When home on school breaks, he’d share what he was learning, and I grew in understanding the kinds of sacrifices ahead of him. I learned about the stress put on the marriage and family of a police officer. We talked about how his trained hyper-vigilance might make it hard for him to relax when out at a park or restaurant. During an internship, he watched a group of young men yelling at the officer he was with, videotaping with cell phones, seemingly intent on starting a fight. Another time, a detective described what it’s like to habitually move towards danger instead of away from it, and to interact with people who are having bad days, maybe the worst days of their lives. This same detective mentioned that he’s limited his media intake because it was too hard to come home from those days and read negative generalizations about police. 

This has all been eye-opening for me. In one mother-son conversation, I expressed some of my growing realization about the high personal cost of police work. He acknowledged the sacrifice, and then said, “Someone has to do it. And I can.”

After college graduation and a thorough six-month application process, he was accepted in the police department he’d hoped for. He’s in academy training now, intense and strict, with lots of physical and academic work. 

My other son is also in rigorous training, in the U.S. Marine Corps. Soon he’ll be stationed and possibly deployed. In his voice, I sometimes hear the weight he feels of needing to be strong to defend his country. Listening to him, I understand better the personal complexity of being part of a chain of command that goes up to the President, and how your commitment to that structure is necessary so that the whole thing doesn’t fall apart. I feel it personally when I learn that he’s been advised to not travel in uniform, as a way to avoid being harassed or threatened. He also is making personal, costly sacrifices to protect others.  

Through listening to my sons, I understand better some of what it’s like to put your life at risk for others, including many who don’t understand or appreciate what you’re doing. Because of my  relationship with my sons, I appreciate the complexities of working in these high-stress fields more than I have in the past. Because of my relationship with my sons, I’m bothered by the careless use of language that propagates an idea that all police are racist and brutally violent. 

This isn’t a political blog: I’m not taking sides on a “Black Lives Matter” or “Blue Lives Matter” debate. Not all police are brutal and not all are honorable. And this isn’t a media rant: I do think that social media makes it easy to use words to belittle and undermine others, openly or subtly. But the expression of complex issues on social media is beyond the scope of this post. 

So why share this on a biblical counseling blog? As a mom, I’ve grown in understanding by listening to my sons. As a counselor, I also have the privilege of listening and learning as I hear the parts of people’s stories that aren’t always visible on the surface. I hope that this has made me a wiser person. I’m often reminded that generalizations, even when their intent is to advance positive social change, miss so very much. 

We are quick to make judgments. We categorize people based on career, education, political views, appearance. Sometimes we do this carelessly, such as by not thinking of the implications of saying police brutality and the many other generalizations that slip out so easily. 

“Be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to grow angry.” This advice is as wise today as when James wrote it 2,000 years ago, and so very pertinent for the highly-charged, emotional world of communication we’re living in.

This isn’t place to solve all of this.  I just had a little story to share. 

Also, I’m proud of my sons. 

Advent

On this mountain the Lord Almighty will prepare
    a feast of rich food for all peoples,
a banquet of aged wine—
    the best of meats and the finest of wines.
On this mountain he will destroy
    the shroud that enfolds all peoples,
the sheet that covers all nations;
    he will swallow up death forever.
The Sovereign Lord will wipe away the tears
    from all faces;
he will remove his people’s disgrace
    from all the earth.
The Lord has spoken.

In that day they will say,

“Surely this is our God;
    we trusted in him, and he saved us.
This is the Lord, we trusted in him;
    let us rejoice and be glad in his salvation.” (Isaiah 25:6-9)

“Advent is a season of the liturgical year observed in many Christian churches as a time of expectant waiting and preparation for both the celebration of the Nativity of Jesus at Christmas and the return of Jesus at the Second Coming.” (Wikipedia)

 In Advent–as in this beautiful passage from Isaiah–tears, hope, and joy live together.

Our faces are covered with tears. But we believe that God himself will wipe these tears away.

Our hearts hurt with shame and disgrace. But we believe that God himself will completely remove this pain.

Our lives are touched by the enfolding shroud of death. But we believe that God himself will swallow up this enemy.

Good news of great joy for all people has arrived.

And so, even as we still weep, we also celebrate. Soon, we will feast and we will sing and we will give gifts. Our Christmas celebrations will not be perfect and pain-free. But through our feasts and songs and gifts, we will declare that we are those who rejoice in the salvation of Jesus, Emmanuel, God with us. And we will worship this Jesus who someday will wipe away our tears, remove our disgrace, and swallow up death forever. We will feast here with an eye on the great banquet to come, our imperfect gatherings a foretaste of the celebration that will be wonderful beyond anything we can imagine. “This mountain” for Isaiah is Mount Zion, the place where people from around the world will be joyfully gathered.

He has come. He will come again. And on that day, we will be gathered together as gladness and joy overtake us and sorrow and sighing flee away.

Advent is a time of aching with hope. Expectant waiting.

So let us sing, even if we’re weeping at the same time. Let us trust in him. Let us rejoice and be glad in his salvation. Together.

P.S. The day after posting this, I read this quote, from a sermon by Vincent van Gogh. I had no idea that this emotionally troubled artist wrote sermons! It fits beautifully with the theme of this post:

“It is a good word that of St. Paul: as being sorrowful yet always rejoicing. For those who believe in Jesus Christ, there is no death or sorrow that is not mixed with hope – no despair – there is only a constantly being born again, a constantly going from darkness into light. They do not mourn as those who have no hope – Christian Faith makes life to evergreen life.” (From van Gogh’s sermon of October 29, 1876).

So I am enjoying this painting of van Gogh’s - a dark night illuminated by lights in homes and lights in the heavens.

A wide place

I shall walk in a wide place, for I have sought out your precepts (Psalm 119:45).

Walk in a wide place.

Suffering can constrict and squeeze us. Our problems seem to balloon to nightmarish, absurd size, and we can’t see the world past our internal churnings. We find ourselves crowded with worries, jealousies, anger and hurt. Not much else fits in that closed-in room. It’s hard to breathe.

Oh, to escape the narrowness, to be in the fresh air on the top of mountain for a glimpse of grand and glorious vistas.

In a wide place, you swing your arms, look around, breathe fresh air. You skip and run for joy. There’s room for delight, room to share that delight with others.

My sons and daughters on the edge of the wide atlantic

The way to that wide open space? God’s precepts. Really? Rules feel restrictive, not freeing. But God’s words usher us into the freedom and abundant life for which we long. They woo us out of our cramped spaces and open our lives to the grand and glorious.

The world will not tell us that seeking God’s precepts leads to walking about in a wide place. To pursue this freedom, we sometimes need to shut our ears to persistent voices that make counterfeit promises that happiness comes from centering our lives on self-indulgence, self-fulfuillment, self-esteem.

It’s true that seeking God’s precepts may feel at times like a hard trudge. Getting to that mountaintop is a lot of step-by-step work. Laying down control of our lives and trusting another's ways does not come easily. But the freedom of the wide place is priceless. His words bring us to ever-expanding life.