All I want for Christmas

Even in the deepest canyons of life, when we sit huddled in the rocky bottom, unsure of our way up, the sun hits the ledges above and lights the mountainside with glory, reminding us of warmth and promise and propelling us in our search of a path out. Sunrise this morning reminds me of this ancient truth once again, the hillsides lit golden and scarlet by the ascending sun, the valleys still dark and frost-bitten from the winter's dark night. 

It is always so, when I am hermetically sealed in the warmth of my home, and I gaze out the windows at the beauty He lays at our doorstep faithfully with each sunrise. Creation is my beacon home, the light that both guides me to the safe channel and warns me of the dangerous cliffs and rocks of the dark sea. Sitting on the other side of the window, in the shadows, I am daily in awe as the sun hits the ice crystals on the windowpane and sends me twirling in the chandelier light of the morning's prism. 

All I wish for Christmas is this: that I remember that, no matter how long, deep, wide and dark the canyon of my winter's discontent, my way is lit by the Light of a holy and unfathomable God who speaks loudest through suffering and draws us closest through days such as these. Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty!

I’ve been climbing my whole life 

and I’m only at the bottom of the mountain, 

Rising up from my feet in the daylight 

rising up into the clouds and out of my sight 

is the height of that mountain 

Well my hands cannot reach it 

and my mind can’t comprehend it 

but my soul is gonna get there one day 

Lord, these shoes are gonna need some help 

so we can make it to the top of the mountain 

Many feet have gone before us 

with a habit of faith and courage 

they’ll meet us at the road’s end

~Christa Wells, On the Mountain~

Friday afternoon vignette

The sun has been tucked up in the billowing down of the clouds all day. I sit in my swing, and close my eyes to hear the world aflutter around me. The crickets sing their high undertone as one of the last songbirds left us sings her autumn praise to an empty world. A woodpecker is hard at work in the woods with his percussion and the crows punctuate the melody of the golden earth preparing for winter.

The sun glows through her blanket for a moment, and I tip my head back. The yellow bleeds through my eyelids and I am awash in my favorite color. I have paused Jane Eyre, the perfect shade of gray but too oppressive. I am alone at home, the children gone with one of their favorite great-aunt and uncle ahead of us for a weekend of fun.

He bleeds through. He warms my face. He bathes me in gold. He is here in every sound, fragrance, poetry, music of the earth. I am alone but held so gently.

Yesterday I washed the wounds of others in the free clinic. Spent an evening singing with the voice he gave. Hugged hard a hurting friend. I awoke feeling tired of this world again, tired of gray, tired of hurting. The computer blinks to the screensaver, and I remember harder times. Amy, sick and gray on her hospital bed. A baby blighted in my belly. A time of trouble in my marriage. The crisp, familiar scent of hospital sheets surrounding my aching head. A missionary's chorus has beguiled me, and the words come silent to my lips as I thank Father for His grace and healing.

O, I come to the Son who can heal with His wounds,

O, I come to the Thief who has robbed every tomb,

O, I come to the Victor, my Life and my Love,

O, Lamb of God, I come.

O, Lamb of God, I come.