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I don’t like admitting that my heart hasn’t been in the season this year; in fact, it pains me to say it. Heart not in Christmas – that just sounds wrong. Heart and Christmas are two very ingrained words… up until this year they seemed intertwined and mutually exclusive to the point of synonimity. (If that were a real word.) This year feels different. I can’t explain it, can’t put my finger on it, call it out, or really make sense of it, but it is…different.

I was wrestling with this feeling. Trying to push past the bahhumbugishness and embrace the holiday spirit, my attempts seemed forced and fake. Like I was trying to take something dull and lifeless and transform it into something shiny and bright. Like I was taking the ordinary humdrum wool stockings of life and hanging them by the fire place next to a painted Christmas tree with lights. It wasn’t working, and I was getting more and more confused the closer Christmas got.

My daughter belted out, “10 days til Christmas!” with all the anticipation the season deserves, and I sighed and pulled out my list looking at the names left unchecked. Friends laughed and talked of caroling and sadly, I was relieved that one of the neighbors got sick and it got called off. Is that horrible? Yes. It is. But, it’s honest.

So, today when Maddie woke up with a fever on the day of the Christmas Program, I can’t say that I wasn’t surprised. It seemed about right. We went through the motions of preparation, making food and picking out clothes, but all the while it wasn’t very deep. Pretty much the pre-performance to the program…and my heart again played it’s part in isolation, hiding from the joy.

Then, we got to the church. The atmosphere was dull and dark, no big production, everyone seemed to sigh their hellos and cut off their hugs. My soul was sad. I sat down next to a dear man in the church and finally said out loud, “I’m just not feeling it this year.” He seemed surprised as he looked at me as if to say, “You?!” I nodded. He let out a sigh of relief, “I was afraid it was just me.” He went on to tell me about his stress and his strain and how distant his heart seemed to be, and all the while the Spirit of God in me echoed, “You are not alone.” And, I found my ADD mind wandering to others and to more and thought perhaps there was much more to this apathetic spirit toward Christmas.

Then, it happened. The program got started as kids nervously mumbled their lines and looked for confidence in the faces of their parents. Slowly the story progressed until we arrived at the angels…the heralding, good news messengers of old, that sang the birth announcement to the shepherds in the fields. It started alright, each angel with his and her part, until there was a break down in communication. The angels huddled and regrouped figuring out the speaker and the lines. It was obvious that everyone was pointing to one little girl, the youngest of the group, the precious grand-daughter of the man I’d just been speaking with, and she was terrified. The other angels were getting antsy, and she stood there – silent. A bigger angel in the back tried to tell her her line, hoping to encourage her to speak, but she still stood there, eyes wide, incredible denial filling her face. Realizing everyone was waiting and her line could not be taken by another, she gave in, and like a rush of wind in utter defeat, she said with a sigh, “Jesus is born.” I could not control my laughter! None of us could. It was art imitating life. And, we were entertained!

I laughed so hard I cried (and felt horrible when the sweet girl put her “Angel Song” booklet over her face.) She didn’t understand what many of us were feeling; she had captured our lack of excitement in her bland statement, and something was happening in me. I realized that I was grossly overlooking Christ. He was treated as a commonplace statement filled with exaggerated sigh while I had been focused on all the other things that held no value or hope.

AND IT HIT ME – I had taken Christ out of Christmas. I had seriously forgotten that this season is all about the mundane becoming special, the invaluable being shown as a treasure, and the commonplace finding remarkable meaning in the Light of Christ’s birth. The darkness I was feeling, the lack of joy and spirit, the absence of hope was a child of God succumbing to the “holiday.” I’d like to say that I got up from that pew and I walked out of church with a new perspective and with the heart of a insomniatic Scrooge, I ran from the sanctuary singing and dancing! I’d like to say that, but it simply wouldn’t be true. The truth is, I’m trying. I’m gonna attempt to remember Christ everyday in some special way… and I’m praying for His peace and His joy in my heart because I really could care less about the “holidays” – it’s Christ I want.

Bear with me, I’m a little upset.

What part of “Be not conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind” aren’t we getting?

There is a serious curve that is emerging in the church, and we used to point our fingers and talk behind the backs of a specific group of people who were artistic and edgy…but now the margin is thinning and the compromise is rampant. Only we don’t call it “compromise” we call it “relevant”. We use the words of Paul in his address at Mars Hill – basically where he says, “I have become all things to all people so that I might save some.” But, it’s not a legitimate translation of that passage; it’s a misrepresentation to justify partaking in the pleasures of the world. (And, I realize that I just lost readers and ticked some people off, but I’m not too concerned.) I don’t know where the “relevant” movement will end, but as one called to lead and impact this generation…I’m having a hard time following suit.

Leaders are immersing themselves in the culture – drinking, smoking, cursing. They say, “We’re trying to be relevant, to reach out, to be a part of the crowd.” What crowd, any real reason why? Because we are afraid to be called “hypocrits?” And yet, it’s exactly what we are. Because we want them to embrace Jesus? So we are helping them by lighting up and tipping the bottle and spilling expletives, oh yeah, because I totally remember in Mark 28:8 where Jesus got a little tipsy at the party and started cursing the Pharisees. Um, no. The excuse I often hear is: “Hey, it’s okay. Even Jesus ate with the sinners.” Yeah, He did. He reached out to them with a voice that said, “Come to me all of you that are weary and burned out, and I will give you rest.” But I don’t recall him passing the hookah.

This “shock and awe” witness is getting old. I’ve actually heard people say, “I think it is so cool that pastor so and so cusses. He really understands.” What does he understand? That his use of the English language is so limited he has to resort to slang to get his point across. I’m pretty sure that you can say those things without getting vulgar. The truth is that those that are listening to him, even those in the world, might actually have more respect for him if he spoke out of a heart of compassion and sensitivity…just saying.

But, truth be told, I’m frustrated for another reason. I’m frustrated because in being lackadaisical about our habits and our actions, we are missing the bigger picture. In being nonchalant about our indulgences we are making an impact greater than we realize. In slinging cuss words and consuming alcohol and smoking nicotine we are saying “This is okay.” We are saying to the younger generation, “Indulge, enjoy, live it up!” All the while, we are exchanging our witness for our release. This is not okay. It’s not. And, when I’m paying the rehab bills to help my alcoholic daughter get over her addiction because some idiot said that she could drink because Jesus drank and that gives her the license to do the same, I’m gonna be furious! When my daughter is in the hospital with emphysema because some youth pastor decided to prove a point to the church by smoking in front of his kids, I’m really gonna have to spit in his face! No. I won’t actually spit. But I will be sure to show him this blog, this post, this warning and my child and say, “Do you think this is what Jesus meant when he said to feed His sheep?”

I beg of you. Let’s not set aside our witness to let out our steam. It’s a problem, and as cool as it is becoming, it’s not cool. It’s not cool when mentors of young girls now become confusing to them because where they are going to Bible Studies and they are doing mission trips, they are dropping the “f” bomb and are drinking more than just occasionally. These are the same ones that tout, “Be all things to all men so that we might save some,” but if you are doing these things in the privacy of your home, on the back porch with a shade up, are you doing it for “all men” or are you doing it for you? Has your release become more important than your witness?

Jesus says, “Come as you are.” But, those that have been pitiful and dirty and scarred, desperate and dark and scared know that He doesn’t want you to stay that way. It’s a process. I will be the first to admit that I have a ton of issues that need to be rooted out and dealt with, but He is faithful to gently and passionately show me what they are and as He does He transforms those places…by the renewing of my mind, not by my “relevant” living.

The hope is in the changed life, not the compromised one.

I had a dream last night. It was fantastic, a love story, drama, suspense, fantasy, all in one. I thought to myself, “This would make a lovely book.” And, maybe it will one day. But one part of the dream is standing out to me, has stood out to me all day…I will explain.

In this dream, the main character was a man…he lived in this elaborate but very art nouveau house; the whole place was like an art gallery. One part of the house that stands out significantly was this staircase, and all along one side of this staircase were bookshelves with thousands and thousands of books…all in hard back, all with gold pages. It was beautiful, and for a writer and reader, like myself, it was intoxicating and irresistible.

Immediately, I began to thumb through each one, marveling at its pages and tracing the words on the binding. I didn’t know that the man was observing me. I was enthralled in this world of books. Suddenly I noticed one book that was simple…the pages were simple, the lettering simple, and it seemed pristine. I picked it up, the title was something about streams or deserts…I know, two very different pictures, but for the life of me, I cannot remember which; it was, after all, a dream. But, perhaps the truth in that statement lies in the fact that I casually glanced it over and replaced it, uninterested.

It was then that I noticed the man, in the corner, watching me. He was a lovely man, beautiful in every way…and I was drawn to him. It took me but a second to see the glistening tears in his eyes, not yet dropped but shining. Confused, I ran to him seeking to wipe his tears, to understand his pain, but he turned from me and said, “That was the story of my life.” I was even more confused so he continued, “That book that you clearly had no interest in…was the story of my life.” I was deeply regretful, sad, and upset. I had hurt this dear, precious, lovely man by my disregard for his life, his book, his story.

I ran, far and fast…and eventually I woke up. Broken hearted over my choice, and my casual dismissal of a life that I had come to love. I would like to have that dream again…and choose to love that book.

But tonight…I’m feeling that dream again…but in a different vein. I’m thinking of another book, lying on my bed stand. I’m thinking of a book that sits unmoved since yesterday. I’m thinking of a book that tells an amazing story of amazing lives that reveal the life of One and One alone…the life and character of my God. I’m thinking about how often I dismiss it, or casually glance at it and replace it on my bed stand. I’m thinking about the many times that I have pulled out one or two verses only to disregard the full meaning of the Word. And, I am picturing a man…a beautiful man, a lovely man, an innocent man that died so that I could read and understand and love those words. And, how he must feel as he sees me disregard His book. And I want to run, far and fast…but instead, I will cease my writing and I will choose His book…and I will read His book…I will love His book. And, in the end, I will find myself, not regretful, but safe once more in the arms of grace.

It really was a beautiful dream.

Fear.

It is our strongest opponent. It has the power to cripple and annihilate. It is the antithesis of hope and faith. It awaits our slightest slip.

It finds us at unexpected places… Expectedly. In the hospital waiting on a diagnosis, a treatment, a test result. At school in the hallways, in the principals office, in the face of a bully. In our homes in the confines of a closet, on the floor of a bathroom, in the security of our beds. It finds us. It doesn’t have to try.

It is an enemy we create, with our minds, in our hearts, and with our consent. It is the thing that keeps us from dreaming, hoping and, for too many of us, living. It is the one thing that can and does separate us from the love of God…the love of others…the love of self.

It is a faithful opponent, an intimidating foe. It finds me fragile and scared; broken and scarred. It finds me; try as I might to elude it’s onset, it finds me. And when it does it ravages me. In a matter of seconds it rips away my security and dares me to raise my chin. I tremble in it’s wake, and it gloats darkly.

Then I get in it’s face and I speak. I speak to my fear. Ridiculous, huh? But, it is forced to listen, and as I speak I am forced to hear…I am not alone. I am not the sum of my mistakes, my aggressions, my assaults. I am not crazy or a victim or a fraud. I am not afraid! And finally I speak the words that makes fear cower. I am NOT afraid! I speak it again, louder and with more strength. I AM NOT afraid! And suddenly my fear takes a backseat to my indignation. Greater is He that is in me than he that is in the world! I am more than a conqueror! I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me! Perfect love casts out ALL fear! And, i feel it…I’m alive and well and equipped to face whatever comes my way … Until it finds me again, face to face.

I have a natural affinity for Southern Gospel music. True, there is some underlying history there, but the fact is, if I’m gonna spend an hour and half listening to music, it’s not gonna include a song titled, “Don’t let the sandals fool ya.” Just being perfectly honest. Living in the deep south this poses a bit of problem as apparently it is the commonly selected entertainment for church homecomings…in fact, if you have more than five Saints in your church over the age of sixty, chances are you’re going to come face to face with a gospel singin’. And, yes, it’s a singin’ or a sangin’ depending how far in the country you go to hear said music.

It can be nasally and twangy and yet, oddly enough for many it is still considered hand clapping, foot stomping, hand raising good entertainment. Once a year is about my limit. And amazingly, God has given me two occasions in one week to bear witness to this Southern phenomenon. But, before I get accused of being calloused and cruel, let me get to my point. Whether or not I like it, doesn’t matter…God is still using it to channel His message to His people, young and old, town or country.

I don’t have to enjoy something to hear the word of God in it. I don’t have to listen with raptured interest to the bass as he belts out a verse that is almost too low to catch it’s meaning, but when he starts to speak the name of Jesus…there is a power in his words and his voice that without that element would cease to exist. I don’t squeal with delight when the tenor passionately sings what I feel to be unnatural octaves far above any man’s range about the Living Water. I don’t get chill bumps at the end of the song when four men pair up in four part harmony so that you don’t know where one voice ends and the other begins, but I do appreciate their excitement for what they do to bring worship to their Lord. I may not like the music, but I believe the message.

I’m also not crazy about Screamo or Heavy Metal, or Grunge rock, or Hard Rock or any other veneration of the word “Rock” that they have come up with in the last ten years and I have not been privy to. But, I know that God has touched hearts that do, and He will continue to use that form of music to impart a message of peace and redemption in a world of chaos and shame. It’s not about what I like, it’s about what they’ll listen to, and God is a great respecter of persons…He really does know what we like and tries to meet us with a message in a method that we will actually listen to.

A few years ago I read, “90 Minutes in Heaven” by Don Piper. There are many things that have fancied my imagination about that book, but something that I find fascinating and look forward to experiencing first hand, is the fact that heaven is filled with music…all kinds, all genres, blended in perfect harmony reflecting praise and honor for the King. Can you imagine? Heaven, the place where Brian “Head” Welch and Demon Hunter play simultaneously with the Gaither’s and classical music!? But, I believe it is true. Because it is the message that the heart hears; it is the message that blesses God…and that message can come from a man or woman covered in tattoos singing out of a skull shaped microphone or it can resonate in four part harmony with a Southern twang or echo through the fingers of musicians the world over, who long to impart the message and hope of Christ with the gifts that they’ve been given! Beautiful, amazing grace…that finds us…everyone.

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged. I’ve been out of sorts and under the weather. Not really at the same time, but it’s definitely been cramping my writing hand. Tonight I’m compelled to write, or at least the meds have worn off enough that I think I can construct a cohesive thought.

Two things are riding on the waves of my thoughts tonight: the anniversary of death of a beloved friend and sister in Christ… and, the stark reality that as much as I didn’t want it to, life has gone on.

It was 9 years ago, today which seems almost impossible. I got the call that she was in serious condition at the hospital and that she wasn’t going to make it. But, what the person who informed me didn’t know is that I already sensed something was seriously wrong. I woke up that morning feeling less. I don’t know how else to describe it. Sure, I’m prone to depression and I was the mother of a five month old, but try as I could, I wasn’t sure what exactly was wrong…only that some light had left my life. The day was black and white…even now reliving it, I was in slow motion. My sister came to my side, and she coaxed me, and offered to keep my baby if I wanted to go to the hospital.

I called to talk to her brother, tell him that I was praying for them, that I love her. I told him I wanted to go and be there and just be…there. Of course I was welcome, but I couldn’t, and I HATE that. I was in a daze the rest of the morning….unfeeling, unseeing, unaffected. I feel like I lost a precious day with my baby…maybe I missed a laugh, or a cry, or a look that I could never have back. But try as I did, to concentrate on her…all I could think about was Aimee. That smile, her laugh, those tears that we cried.
A few days later, I went to her funeral. I listened as one by one they got up to share what Aimee had meant to them. I was in a daze..you mean, I wasn’t the only one? I wasn’t the only soul that was touched and felt special at the gaze of one so wonderful? No. I was one of MANY. And then, at the end of the service we had a worship service…a worship service of praise, offering thanks for a life that was so beautiful. But if the words we were singing were “Amazing Love how can it be that you, my King, would die for me?” My heart was echoing, “Amazing Love, how can it be that you my King would take her away?” My soul was begging, “Amazing Love, how can it be that she has died? Amazing Love, this is not amazing. This is a tragedy!” And tears covered my cheeks and the salt sat on my upper lip, and I tried to make sense of our loss.

I remember lowering my arms. No one would think anything of it. I lowered my arms during a praise song, what’s the big deal? It’s not like I’m Moses and if I lower my arms the praises will cease. But God knew what I was really saying. I was saying, “Nope. Not now. I will not praise you.” I was hurting. I wasn’t in the mood for praise. That’s not a very welcome admission. I can hear the cries of, “But you must praise Him in the storm! You’re faith was too small! Your heart was hardened!” NO. My heart was broken…and my Daddy knew this.

Months went by…my baby became a toddler. Her coos became words. Her crawl became steps. And, I was forgetting. This bothered me to no end. How could I forget? How could I pretend that life goes on? How can I imagine that all is well when Aimee’s parents still grieve and miss and bear the heartache of her death everyday? It didn’t seem fair.

A year went by…then two and another baby…and still…there was a part of me that was bitter about her death. “But, Leslie, did you hear about the way she led her birth mom to accept Christ? Did you hear the many that testified about what her life had meant? Did you understand that she fulfilled her purpose?” No. No, I didn’t. Because when I sat in that funeral there was only one thing going through my heart, “Aimee is gone.” And it was hard to hear testimony after testimony about the power and beauty of Christ in her life, because…well, because there was no one to fill those shoes! It’s like calling off the player that’s scoring the most points…what’s the sense in that?

Years went by. My girls were growing up and as I watched I marveled at the heart of my oldest. The way she was so sensitive to Christ, her deep love for Him at such a tender age, and I thought, “There’s my Aimee.” I’d smile and pull her on my lap and tell her about a sweet friend that had blessed her in my tummy…and, what a moment of blessing that had been. As I retold the story, I’d picture her large slender hands encircling my belly and the sound of her lips moving, and I’d smile…her words had imparted strength and love and divine appointment for my child. I believe this.

More years. And I find myself, upset, depressed, disappointed. That particular summer, I had gone to help with a youth camp because after all that’s where my heart was. I poured myself out and into them until I had nothing left to give. Fulfilling the role of “got it all together counselor” when inside I was falling apart. No one knew. And I wasn’t about to disappoint everyone by telling them. But, Daddy knew. And He had a plan.

Abigail Handy Berry.

She brought back my sunshine that I lost that black and white day in October, and it was all because my Aimee was sunshine for her. Once a precious young girl, convinced that the rest of her days would be filled with pain…now a beautiful, promising woman of God who convinced me that God can make tragedy good.

Yes. It is amazing. Amazing Love that gives and takes away. Amazing Love that lingers and sustains. Amazing Love that will just as surely take a fist as outstretched hand. Amazing Love that is faithful to see you through the pain just to bring you light again. That’s the amazing love of God.

And yes, those shoes of Aimee’s were big…but that just gives us more work to do…and Abbi and I, together and apart, are going to do our part so that the legacy and life of Aimee lives on. I can raise my hands in praise again…Because I know…the One that waits with a twinkle in His eye for the day He pulls her out from behind His back. That awesome day when Abbi and I will wrap our arms around her and get to kiss her sweet face again…He knows we miss her, and we know she lives. 🙂

It’s true. As much as I hate it and try to keep it from happening, I bite – with my tongue.

Just say the wrong thing at the wrong time in the wrong tone, and it is on.

Catch me on the morning that I didn’t get all 8,777 z’s that I need, and I’m likely to pounce first.

Speak to me in a voice that I only interpret as condescending to another precious soul that I love, and watch me hiss.

Or, walk headlong into danger after I’ve begged you to turn around, and he who was once brother becomes enemy of the state.

It happens. More often than I care to admit. It happens. And those that walk headlong into it, because apparently I don’t keep my flashers on long enough, know it all too well.

It’s where I’m not like Jesus.

Truth is, right before it happens, there is this voice that tries to speak up. I’ve heard it before. It tells me kindly to hold my tongue, step back, and count to ten, sometimes ten thousand if I’m particularly riled. But, sometimes, I choose to ignore it. Because selfishly there is great satisfaction in the bite.

I find myself salivating at just the right barb to land the sink and bring it all home…isn’t that disgusting? I don’t play games, I end them. I don’t set people up with juicy innuendo hoping they get what point I’m trying to make, I stab them with the razors edge of truth driving the point home, powerfully and with a crushing blow.

Didn’t know this about me? It’s because you haven’t crossed my path.

Most the time I’m loving and giving and kind. Most of the time I’m funny and passionate and graceful. Most of the time I’m understanding and sympathetic and good hearted. But, there are times like I mentioned above when my flesh rips through it’s cage of self control, and I attack.

It’s disturbing to admit….and yet, I feel the need to let it all out. Post it in a blog that a few people will read because I’m tired of the lie…the pedestal…the thought that I’m somehow not capable of these human tendencies. I assure you I am.

I can be ugly and mean, resentful and unkind.

I can make rude comments about people I don’t know and who don’t know me.

I can ignore someone who obviously just needs someone to listen.

I can turn my nose up at people who turn their noses up at me.

I can hurt people deeply, intentionally or unintentionally, and have no way to undo that pain.

I can forget that the life I live is not my own. I don’t want to. It isn’t how or who or what I want to be. But, I can…and I do.

It’s selfish and it’s cruel and it’s unkind and pretty much diabolical.

And, this is a warning of sorts, wrapped up in a confession: Don’t get on the wrong side of my teeth. You might not recover.