The Wonder of Christmas

I’ve been meaning to write this for a while. Well, I’ve been trying to write this for a while. Between finals and a case of writer’s block that I just can’t seem to kick, I haven’t been able to get it into writing. Perhaps it’s because I’m still processing. Perhaps it’s because I have no idea how I want to present this story. Perhaps… I don’t know.

I have always loved Christmas, but in recent years, I’ve started to find the Christmas season to be a little bit in conflict with the rest of my schedule, especially school. This year, as my younger siblings kept me updated on the exact number of days until Christmas, I found myself counting down the days to the end of the semester. Don’t get me wrong, I love school, I love BCS, I love what I’m learning… but between seventeen credits, commuting, and everything to sort out with my car, and my back and shoulder, and filing a medical claim with the insurance company from my car accident in October, I found myself stretched a little thin by the end of the semester. As my younger siblings were filled with wonder at the Christmas season, praying for a little snow to make it all just right, I quietly thanked God that I had only had to drive through the snow one morning so far, and went back to trying to keep Ashurbanipal and Ashurnassurpal straight. One of them made Pharaoh someone-or-other the sole ruler of Egypt, and the other one washed his weapons in the Mediterranean while not attacking Omri of Israel.

One afternoon, I found myself lying on the floor trying to ease the tension in my upper back, while also trying to study Environmental Science (Sidenote: there isn’t really a good way to read a large, floppy textbook while lying on your back.) My two youngest sisters were sitting next to the Christmas tree playing Sunday school.

“And then Zacheus came….”

“No, Zanna, Zacheus was in a tree.”

“God told Zacheus to climb down, because we might fall out of trees.”

“No, Zanna, that’s not the Christmas story! Jesus was born on Christmas because he loves us!”

As their child-like voices told a slightly scrambled version of the Christmas story (Praise had the story almost entirely right, but I think Zanna added Zacheus coming down out of the tree to see baby Jesus in the end...) I was struck by the wonder in their voices. They both knew the Christmas story, but they both found the story to be new, and exciting! Part of me didn’t. I still loved the story, but I had kind of lost my wonder. I was exhausted, and busy, and it didn’t look or feel like Christmas!

I got up off the floor, deciding that coffee at four in the afternoon was a good idea, because without it I might not make it to Mounds View and back that evening. That was my third day in a row that I had shot past my self-imposed one cup a day limit. Probably not a good habit, but I had less than two weeks before I went on break. And why was I always in more pain after visiting the physical therapist than I was before?

I hadn’t actually looked at what the focus for ESL was that night. Probably Christmas. That would make sense. I could read the handout when I got there. That gave me half an hour to eat supper and get a start on Friday’s reading.

About an hour later, I walked into the room full of talking, laughing students and their tutors, and I couldn’t help but smile. Most of the students are math or science majors, either on the Visiting Scholars program, or a semester abroad. There’s a small handful of liberal arts students, I think all of them studying sociology. You can kind of spot the liberal arts majors right away. In that way, it sort of reminded me of being at the U of M for my older brother’s graduation. There’s something about engineers that sets them apart from sociology students, and vice-versa, regardless of language or culture.

Glancing at the handout, I was surprised to find that it wasn’t the usual format, with questions at the end of each paragraph. Instead, the entire page, front and back, was the Christmas story. The handout had a few questions throughout, one of the first being, “Have you heard this story before?” For some reason, I expected the answer to be yes. It wasn’t.

It took a second for that to sink in. I was talking to an adult who had never heard the Christmas story before. I had told the Christmas story to little kids, who had all the details, scrambled together and randomly inserted Zacheus at the end, but it had never occurred to me that I interacted with someone on a weekly basis who had never heard the story of how Christ came to earth.

Suddenly, I felt utterly unprepared and incompetent. I wasn’t ready to walk someone through the Christmas story when they had never heard it before! And what if I couldn’t communicate it well enough? When I first started volunteering with All Nations ESL, I had a student whose English was, well, better than mine some of the time. And she was familiar with Christianity, to the point that she wanted to discuss the problem of evil. But she had gone home for a month, and my new student hadn’t been in the US as long, and wasn’t as fluent in English, and what if I couldn’t explain the Christmas story to her in a way that would make sense?

Pull yourself together, I told myself. If there’s one story you know better than anything else, it’s this one.

As she read through, paragraph by paragraph, pausing to ask for explanation, clarify pronunciation, and define words, I found myself doing something I had honestly never anticipated having the opportunity to do. I was presenting the gospel to someone who had never heard it before, at least, not in its entirety.

It is an incredible, humbling wonder to be able to share the story of Christmas with someone who has never heard it before. With the conversation starter handout, and a piece of blank paper, I found myself explaining what a prophecy was, why Jesus needed to be born, explaining that Jesus was born of a virgin, why Herod felt threatened when the Magi came looking for a newborn King, and how so many people missed what was right in front of them because they were looking for a King who would save them from Rome, when in reality, Jesus came to save all of humanity from sin. I found myself explaining what sin was, and how Adam and Eve had rebelled against God when they were in the Garden of Eden. As I looked at my poorly sketched timeline, showing the garden, the prophets that God had sent to Israel, and the way that all of it pointed to the cross, I felt my excitement growing. Jesus came to fulfill all of history!

It's a story I know so well, love so much, and yet rarely think about. I don't wonder at it the way I used to.

Until I was explaining it to someone who had never heard it before. Until, in her halting English, she told me that she thought the story was difficult, incredible, and something she didn't know the word for.

The Christmas story is so incredible, so difficult, so beautiful, so deep, and yet… so simple. I had heard my little sister explain it earlier that day. The story of God stepping into the world He created is so simple, that a five year old can explain it.

And at the same time, it is so incredible, that an adult can wonder at it.

In Defense of #PrayfortheWorld

You've probably seen it. #PrayforParis is being responded to with #Prayfortheworld, and, as is usually the case on social media, there's disagreement over which hashtag deserves to be trending.

I don't want to, in any way, minimize what happened in Paris. It was an atrocious, large-scale act of terror that has left France, Paris, and the entire world reeling. The people of Paris will feel the effects for years to come. This is the worst attack on French soil since WWII. That's a really big deal.

That having been said, I'd like to defend #PrayfortheWorld. We don't always see tragedy until it hits the west.You may or may not know that ISIS led a suicide attack in Beirut on Thursday morning. Or maybe you did, but it didn't prompt you to action on social media, and didn't prompt you to pray for the people of Lebanon. I saw the headline, skimmed the article, and headed to study group. Perhaps you didn't know that there was a 7.0 magnitude earthquake off the coast of Japan on friday evening. Or maybe you saw the headline, but were busy reading about Paris. I was. Maybe you didn't know that the Kurdish Peshmerga, fighting along side a group of lightly armed Yazidis, took back a major highway from ISIS this past week. You probably knew that one, but maybe you didn't think about what that meant. "Lightly armed Yazidis" looks nothing like a US military mission. First of all, these people are refugees. The Yazidis in the KRG are the same group that ISIS trapped in the Sinjar mountains and began committing genocide on. The Peshmerga fought their way through and helped the Yazidis escape to Kurdistan in northern Iraq. These are people who have seen their families slaughtered before their eyes. Now, they're going out "lightly armed" aka, grossly under-equipped, to push ISIS as far away from their people as possible. Their plan is to either defeat ISIS or die trying. You've read about the jet that was downed in the Sinai peninsula, also an act of terror. I didn't pray for those families, did you?
It's easy to miss the fact that behind the headlines are real people and real tragedies. Sometimes it takes something like the Paris attacks to wake us up to that fact. I'm not saying this to minimize the Paris attacks. I'm just asking you to let your heart break for the world. That's not to say that you should walk around weeping all the time, but we should be moved by the hurting world, and that should prompt us to prayer. In Isaiah 59, the LORD is appalled that there was no one to intercede. Let's not be those people.

If you've changed your profile, if you've hashtaged #PrayforParis, please, please, put actions to your words. We've adopted a "good vibes" mentality of prayer - think positive thoughts, post a hasthag, and you're done. Please, get on your knees for the people of Paris today.

If you've hashtaged #PrayfortheWorld, please pray for Paris and pray for the world. Also, don't make this about something that it's not. Please don't post about the abortion rates in France, or gun control, or immigration, or whatever else. There's a time and a place for that, but terrorist attacks are not a platform for your politics. This is a tragedy - recognize it as such. Mourn for Paris, pray for France, and pray for the world.

Pray for France. But don't just pray "God, be with the people of France." Yes, pray that, but pray more than that. When you pray for a friend or a family member, I bet you pray more than "God bless so-and-so," so please, in the wake of this tragedy, pray more than "God bless all the little children of the world."
Pray for hope. France is spiritually starved. Only 25% of the population would say that religion, any religion, is an important part of their life. Pray that God will work through this tragedy to draw the people of France to Him.
Pray that France will be equipped to meet the medical needs that have arisen from this. Pray that God will give the doctors wisdom as they treat the victims.
Pray for the Muslim communities in France. Yes, Islam is a religion of violence, but not all Muslims are ISIS. Pray for this lost group of people.
Pray for the migrants - much of Europe is considering closing their borders in response to this attack. There are real, understandable security concerns. There isn't an easy answer to this situation, but these are real people with nowhere to go.
Pray for the G20 Summit which is going on right now. Pray for NATO, France is an ally country, and this was an act of war.
If you look at the news, you can find links connecting all the issues that come up. Politics, economics, terror, security, they all tie together. It only makes sense that praying for Paris would prompt us to pray for the world.

Since starting school, I've had very little time to keep up on the news, and I haven't taken the time to pray for the world on a regular basis. #PrayforParis has been a reminder to me that the whole world needs prayer, and we need to know how to pray for the world. I hope it's a reminder and a wake up call to you, too. #PrayforParis #Prayfortheworld

A Commuter's Morning Prayer

O Lord, you've searched me and know me! You know my 11:00 study nights and my 6:30 a.m. commute. 38 miles, Lord, let them all be Yours.

You know the way that I take, even better than I do (and I sometimes think I could drive that route in my sleep. Not entirely sure that I haven't . . .)

Teach me to walk in your ways, and also to drive in them. Teach me patience and peace on the mornings that it takes an hour and a half to get to school.  

As I budget my time, because there are days that I find it difficult to fit everything in, let it be a reminder that I am a steward, not an owner of my time.  

When the commute is long and lonely, help me to remember that I am never alone when I am with You.
On the days that I feel torn, when I feel like I live in two worlds without belonging to either, let it be a reminder to me that this world is not my home.

For my two worlds, Father, I pray. Bless my time at home and also at school. As I trade the sunrise over the mist-covered fields for the city skyline every morning, I will praise You for this season of my life. 

Thank you for the two hours of quiet time that I would not have carved into my schedule if I were not spending that time on the road. Thank you for the Minneapolis skyline peeking over the horizon every morning, making me fall in love with the city all over again every time. Thank you for the peace and quiet of my country home that I get to return to every evening. Thank you, Lord, for my morning commute, and let it draw me ever closer to You.

Having a Jonah Moment

The first time I remember hearing the story of Paul's conversion and subsequent missionary journeys, I didn't like it. I remember in my six year old brain, I completely disapproved of the fact that Saul got to be a missionary (a calling for very special Christians) and travel the entire known world, when he had been an enemy of Christianity. He had persecuted the Church! He had approved of Stephen's death! And then God made him one of the most influential people in the New Testament. It wasn't fair that someone who had been an enemy of the Church got to travel the entire known world spreading the gospel!

I was pretty sure that I had completely outgrown this immature mentality. Until 8:30 pm last Saturday, when I was previewing a Drive Thru History video for my Sunday School class. It's a great video about Paul's conversion, missionary journeys and his sermon on Mars Hill. But as the video transitioned from Saul of Tarsus watching with approval as an angry mob stones Stephen, to Paul's missionary journeys, it didn't sit well with me.

God, where is your justice? He was so unworthy! Couldn't you have used someone who hadn't dedicated himself to persecuting your children? He set out to destroy your Church!

Voice of the Martyrs has been encouraging people to pray that God would raise up a Paul from among the ISIS fighters. And while I fervently prayed it for a time, I have days when I don't want to. God's grace should go out to sinners, but not jihadists, or rapists, or murderers. They deserve punishment and wrath. That would be justice!

I'm like Jonah, exceedingly displeased when God shows mercy to others. I deserve mercy, because I have served God faithfully and spoken the truth. But Saul of Tarsus? ISIS fighters? Hamas? No. They don't deserve mercy and grace.

My mentality is like that of the older brother in the story of the prodigal son, or the workers in the vineyard who were indignant that the others received the same wage for less work - God's grace is for those who deserve it. I demand that God administer equity, and do so by my definitions and standards. I dislike the idea of God using the undeserving for the work of His kingdom, all the while forgetting that I, too, am just as undeserving. If I were truly focused on justice, then I would have seen God's grace in choosing to meet the demands of justice Himself for my sins as well as Paul's. It is not justice, but arrogance that chooses to hate the sinner as well as the sin when their price has been paid.

Yes, Paul was completely unworthy of God's grace and calling on His life. Jonah was completely unworthy, and yet God chose to use him to call the entire city of Ninevah to repentance. And who am I to be teaching a group of children on Sunday mornings, when my pride can't even come to grips with the fact that God chose to use Paul? I am completely unworthy, and yet He's chosen to use me.

Coming to the End

This is a slightly sappy senior post, and I’m ok with that. I finally got around to reading my ballots last night. Part of me couldn’t quite decide if I even wanted to, but I’m glad I did, because it gave me a chance to just think for a while.

Yes, I got some of the feedback that can be a little frustrating for graduating seniors – advice for “next year” or “in the future,” when I know that I’ll probably never have the opportunity to speak for a panel of judges ever again. I was frustrated by some of my ballots, but I was also humbled and encouraged by the number of judges who said “thank you, this is what I needed to hear.”

I’m glad that I read my ballots, but unless I go back and re-read them at some point, I’m not going to remember what they said. There are a lot of details from this tournament and my entire time competing that I’m pretty sure I won’t remember, but there are a lot of things that I will remember.

I might remember where some of my friends placed, but I know that I’ll remember my friend sitting with her arm around me as I waited to hear extemp semi breaks. I know I’ll remember the people who found me (which is sometimes no small feat at tournaments) to ask me how my rounds went because they cared how I was doing. I will remember those who rejoiced with those who broke and were there for those who didn’t.

I might not remember what anyone’s speeches were, but I know that I’ll remember the meaningful conversations, the laughter, the tears, and the words of encouragement.

I might not remember any of my debate partner’s jokes (because not all of them were as funny as he thought :)), but I will remember him making me laugh.

I might not remember any of the details of any of the world events that I watched with the same enthusiasm and intensity that some people watch football, but I will remember laughing, crying, and praying with my extemp girls. I will remember waking up in the morning to a conversation between the night owls in the extemp chat, with the occasional comment “Patience should share her thoughts on this when she gets up in the morning.” I will remember the running joke about how we were never really allowed to sit next to each other in the prep room (because we probably would have spent half our prep time taking selfies and goofing off….)

I probably won’t remember the bulk of my Middle East research, but I will remember the friend who challenged me, encouraged me, and kept me accountable in prayer for the people behind the events in the Middle East that we were both researching.

I know that I won’t remember my draw time, but I will always remember the extemp lady’s smile, and the fact that she got me a banana out of judge hospitality that one time that I missed lunch.

I know that most of the judges will not remember my name, my topic, or even if I was a good speaker. I’m pretty sure most of them will remember the experience of coming and judging. I won’t remember every impromptu or apologetics speech that I gave, but I will remember that every competition room that I went into presented a unique opportunity to communicate with a panel of judges that were put there by God for a reason – perhaps to hear something that I had to say, perhaps to hear something that someone else had to say.

I have been deeply blessed by the friends I met in NCFCA, and I thank God for each of them. On Saturday evening, I said goodbye to an incredible group of people. Some of them for the last time ever. Some of them are still around and I know that I’ll still see them quite a bit. Some of them I know I’ll see once in a while. But I know that it’s never going to be the same. I know that my time as a competitor is over, and with that, I’m stepping into a new stage of life. I’m going to miss my time in NCFCA, but I know that “there are far greater things ahead than any we leave behind.”

Realizing How Much I Care

I've always said the trophies don't matter that much to me. I'm not in it for the medals or the trophies - I don't even know what to do with them. Where do you even put them? I'm uncomfortable having them on display, but it doesn't seem right to hide them in the back of a closet, either.

Until my little sister broke one of my trophies. And it wasn't just any trophy, it was my extemp trophy. That was a big deal to me. That trophy represented hundreds of hours. That trophy represented late nights, 2 gigabytes of stored articles, and eight months of research collaboration with my extemp club.  That trophy represented success in an event that I used to be too scared to try.

And she broke it. She didn't break it on purpose, but it had kind of been one of those days and when I saw what she had done, my frustration boiled over.

In that moment, I realized how much I cared. I cared if that trophy broke. I cared if that trophy was kept shiny and dust free. I cared if my little sisters couldn't keep their sticky fingers off of it.

It's just a trophy. Five, ten years from now, it'll probably be in a box at the back of a closet.

"I . . . Count them as rubbish in order that I may gain Christ."

 I count it as rubbish, or I freak out if it's broken?

I've said a lot of things about extemp in the time that I've competed in it. It's an addiction. It's an obsession. It's my favorite speech event.
I've also said a few things that reflected my pride in a way that I regret.

In January, Voice of the Martyrs was just as much a part of my regular reading as Foreign Policy, CNN, and the Economist were. Part of what I loved about extemp was the fact that I knew how to pray for the people of the world, because I knew specific needs.

There was a time when doing research left me on my knees and in tears as often as it left me jotting down notes on global leaders that I needed to brief myself on.

I don't know, maybe I'm wrong, but I feel like that girl wouldn't have yelled at her little sisters for breaking a plastic trophy.

Today, my extemp research led to a few cynical remarks under my breath and frustration with my internet connection.
Something changed, and I don't like it. Suddenly, I care more about my success than the hurting world behind the extemp topics. I care more about a trophy than about the little girl who says "Please don't leave me!" when I go to tournaments.

Pressure has this way of revealing what's really going on inside someone's head and where their priorities lie. Today, push came to shove and I picked my trophy over my sister, and I realized that in a very short time, my priorities had shifted.

I want to go back. I want to get back to the point where I really did care more about character than about trophies. Where extemp was an active part of my prayer life. Where speech and debate was something that I did for the glory of God rather than the glory of self. Back to the point where I recognized that I accomplished nothing in or out of the competition room apart from the grace of God. I want to once again count it all as rubbish in order that I may gain Christ.

Watchmen on the Wall

"On your walls, O Jerusalem, I have appointed watchmen; 
All day and all night they will never keep silent. 
You who remind the LORD, take no rest for yourselves, 
and give Him no rest until He has establishes and 
makes Jerusalem a praise in the earth."
Isaiah 62:6-7

"The LORD saw that there was no justice, 

and He was offended.

He saw that there was no man - 

He was amazed that no one was interceding...."

Isaiah 59: 15b-16

I don't know exactly how long this picture has hung over the drinking fountain in the youth room at my church. I can't say I ever noticed it until the week that my youth pastor pointed it out. The watchman, asleep at his post, as the enemy marches on the city.

It was just a quick little rest. No big deal. And besides, there were watchmen on every tower. One voice, on trumpet, one pair of eyes - what difference would it make? Besides, it's not like the whole city wouldn't notice if the enemy approached. And so he slept.

How long had he been sleeping? How long since the last time he had alerted his city? How could he? Why would he sleep at his post? Did he care nothing for his city?

But can I fault him? Haven't I done the same? 

Or maybe it's even worse than that. I haven't been asleep. I'm not the sleeping watchman, but the watchman that does nothing. 

The silent watchman. The watchman that neglects their prayer life because assignments have deadlines. The watchman that keeps their mouth shut because one voice speaking the truth isn't going to make much of a difference anyway. The watchman who doesn't lift their horn to their lips because the city is about to be sieged and it's to risky to draw attention to oneself.

The watchman who faithfully cries out to God for their country every National Day of Prayer, but gets caught up in the details of life throughout the rest of the year.

Puzzles

"No, I can do it, I can do it!"

I smiled at the phrase I'd heard from my little sister several times just that day. At almost three, she's gotten very independent-minded.

I stepped back a little, leaving her room to put the piece she had where it was supposed to be on the puzzle that I was helping her and her four year old sister assemble
Instead of placing her pieces, she reached out and took two more pieces, adding them to her pile.

She was pretty sure that she would be able to rearrange the pieces so that the puzzle became a picture of a monkey, instead of a picture of Jonah and the Whale. She insisted that if I would just give her the rest of the pieces, she would be able to make Curious George! There really isn't a lot of reasoning with two year olds, so I didn't try to convince her otherwise. The four year old helped me finish putting together the pieces we had, and then I gave the two year old free reign of the rest. Ten minutes later, she had completely disassembled the Jonah puzzle and was still intent on making a monkey with the pieces she had.

My little sister's monkey reminded me of a conversation I had been having with a friend of mine. "I just wish God would tell me what He has planned for my life. If He gave me a few more pieces, I feel like I could happily go from there," I had told her.

I could happily go from there, and with enough work, I might be able to form a completely different image than the one designed by the Puzzlemaker.

"God just give me the rest and I can do it!"

The thing is, there isn't actually any way to turn a twenty piece Jonah and the Whale jigsaw puzzle into a monkey. It just doesn't work.

I don't always listen for how the pieces that I have fit into God's plan. Instead, I would like Him to just hand me a few more pieces, and then I could finish putting it together.

"I can do it, God. I've totally got this monkey picture figured out. Would you please just give me the corner pieces to build with?"

But the thing is, life isn't about me. It's not my jigsaw puzzle, it's God's. He's the one who designed it, who gave me the pieces that I have, and who guides my placement of them. Just like my baby sister, I don't really have the vision for what the bigger picture looks like. I also don't have all the pieces. My assortment sometimes looks a little more like the one my little sister had - a couple pieces that belong in opposite corners, one that goes in the middle, part of the fish, Jonah's foot. Maybe the pieces that I have don't fit together on their own, because they're part of a bigger, greater picture designed by God.