Category: God’s love for us

Lavish gift-giving

manger scene
I had a dream, so real that it felt something like what I imagine Joseph experienced when the angel told him about the baby Mary was carrying. In the dream, God said we would have a son, and we were to name him Jeremiah.

Not long after the dream, I began having serious “female problems.” My gynecologist ordered an ultrasound, which revealed massive ovarian cysts and endometrial tumors. He said there was no way I could get pregnant. So certain the dream was real, I went for a second opinion. That doctor said not only could I not get pregnant, but if, somehow, I should conceive, with the pregnancy hormones the tumors would grow faster than the child, causing his death, or severe deformities. I rushed out of his office in tears, and cried for hours.

Finally I surrendered and scheduled the hysterectomy.

The day before surgery, I went in for routine pre-surgical blood work. The next morning, the nurse called.

“Don’t come to the hospital. You’re not having a hysterectomy. You’re having a baby.”

I was ecstatic, but, recalling the doctor’s warnings, fearful at the same time. At the end of the first month I began to cramp and spot. The doc said I was probably losing the baby, to just go to bed. A crowd from church arrived and prayed. Within two days I was fine, and back on my feet.

At twenty-two weeks I went for my first in-office ultrasound, a brand new gadget at that time.

Instead of all my fears, there was a beautifully formed little boy with ten fingers and ten toes, all a-wiggle, and a four-chambered heart, beating regularly. No cysts! No tumors!

The rest of the pregnancy was normal. When our boy was born, I couldn’t stand to name him after Jeremiah, the weeping prophet. (Silly me, as if a name could change God’s design for him. You’d think after those miracles I would be obedient!)

More than twenty years later, my youngest daughter (YD) and her family decided to adopt, to do their part in saving one child from a life of poverty, neglect and/or abuse. When the call came that a five-week-old boy needed a home in two days, they had to make a quick decision and arrange work schedules. YD was still recovering from hospitalization with a serious kidney infection, and their lives were already stretched to the limit with work schedules and their two children. I admired their hearts, but didn’t think it was the right time.

Nevertheless, when they left for another state to get him, I went to the library and checked out every book I could find on adoption, cross-cultural adoption and bonding issues. I read about the children who refused to allow their adoptive parents to give them the love they yearned for, how they would back into a hug, never trust, never let go of some little rag they had brought with them, rather than receive from the parents trying so hard to give them what they really needed.

While I read, I felt God whispering to my heart.

“This is how you’ve been. All the years of struggle, wondering why you haven’t made progress, or why I haven’t changed your circumstances, you’ve been trying to do it yourself. And the times you have come to me, you’ve only backed into my arms.”

I learned that adoption is expensive, and marveled at their faith to borrow money to pay the fees, facing sacrifice for a year or two to pay it back.

God whispered, “I counted the cost, and paid with the life of my Son, so that I could make you my child. Will you let me love you?”

When I considered the choice my daughter and her family were making, purely out of the love of their hearts, with absolutely nothing to do with what the child would bring, I again felt God speaking.

“That is a small glimpse of my love. I love you because I AM LOVE. You cannot earn it, and you cannot lose it.”

Early in the afternoon, YD called to tell me the birth mother was on her way with the baby. “She only asked for one thing.” I waited. “That we keep his first name.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Jeremiah.”

We had our Jeremiah, after all.

Now certain that God was in this, tears coursed down my checks. My heart swelled with love for the child I’d have to wait several more weeks to meet.

When they came home, as my daughter put him in my arms he began to fuss. “Jeremiah,” I whispered.

He turned and looked in my eyes, drew in a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. He snuggled against me with a look that said, “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you?”
Grammi and Jeremiah

Talk about love at first sight!

Jeremiah is three now, with dimples that could charm the spots off a leopard and a smile that lights up a room.

And when I hug him, I am reminded of the God who loves me, just because it’s His nature to love. Who had been trying to love on me for years, and I wouldn’t really let him. Who paid a high price to adopt me into His family, even when I was pushing Him away.

So I light the candles on our Advent wreath and move the statues of Mary and Joseph and the donkey closer to our little manger. The child whose birth we are preparing to celebrate made it possible for his Father to adopt me into his family.

I sigh and snuggle into my Lord, so glad I’ve finally run, arms wide open, into His warm embrace.

Long before he laid down earth’s foundations, he had us in mind, had settled on us as the focus of his love, to be made whole and holy by his love. Long, long ago he decided to adopt us into his family through Jesus Christ. (What pleasure he took in planning this!) He wanted us to enter into the celebration of his lavish gift-giving by the hand of his beloved Son. Ephesians 1: 4-6 (MSG)

Won’t you come?

What are you waiting for?

What are you waiting for?

Advent is a time of waiting.

Advent wreath, image courtesy of marin/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Advent wreath, image courtesy of marin/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net
For some it is anticipation — little children waiting for Santa Claus, older ones waiting for the gift they wanted and were told, “Wait until Christmas.”
Image courtesy of imagerymajestic/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Image courtesy of imagerymajestic/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Many adults are waiting for moving Christmas cantatas or Christmas Eve services, for baking cookies, family gatherings and traditional feasts. For Christmas.

On the other hand, for some this waiting is almost a dread – the press of decorating, shopping, wrapping, mailing, crowded roads and stores, or mindless chatter with people you barely know at parties.

Perhaps it is the fresh pain of Christmas without a lost loved one, or the long agony of being with those who should be loved ones, who hurt us instead.

Image courtesy of Suat Eman/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Image courtesy of Suat Eman/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net

When I was little, on Christmas Eve my father and brothers would cut down a tree out in the woods and drag it to the house. Already started on his liquor, my father would put the tree up for Santa to decorate. On Christmas morning we’d awaken to a beautifully decorated tree and presents below.

Somewhere between five and six, I became “Santa” when my father passed out before doing any Santa duties. My mother, exhausted with my baby brother, asked me to step in. Every year after that, I decorated the tree when the others went to bed. It wasn’t long before I did all the house decorations and wrapped the gifts as well.

Alone with the glow of tree lights, every Christmas I waited for some kind of magic to happen, wished for Christmas to be wonderful and transforming. When we lived up north, the anticipation of a white Christmas brought an extra measure of hope.

Image courtesy of Feelart/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Image courtesy of Feelart/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net

One Christmas stands out in my memories, right after I turned eleven, the year after my youngest brother drowned. For the first time, my mother insisted the family attend the midnight service. Since my baby sister was in bed, I stayed home with her. Once the house was quiet, I put on our one Christmas record and began to decorate the tree, stopping often to watch the snow fall. I was sure the magic I had longed for would come that year.

Christmas morning came with Dad hung over, Mom making sticky buns and putting the turkey in the oven, and my brothers and I opening gifts. The day went on as usual, nothing changed, nothing new.

By the time I was in junior high I no longer waited for a Christmas miracle.

When I became a mother, I tried very hard to make Christmas perfect for my children. Still, I found, as my mother had, too much was out of my control. That didn’t keep me from trying harder, starting sooner, wearing myself out more each year. Somebody deserved Christmas magic!

I was a Christian. I knew the baby whose birth we celebrated. I even made birthday cakes on Christmas day and sang “Happy Birthday” to Jesus, trying to make it more meaningful.

For so many years, I tried so hard.

The Christmas miracle came, but not when I was staring at a manger scene or singing carols, or decorating a tree. It came slowly, imperceptibly over the years, as I received more and more of Jesus into the corners of my soul where I’d hidden out.

Image courtesy of dan/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Image courtesy of dan/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net
The baby in the manger is God, coming in human form to reclaim his own. To bring back the lost. To heal the broken heart. The make us his children.
Image courtesy of nuttakit/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Image courtesy of nuttakit/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net

As I allowed Him in to heal my heart, and as I began to really believe that I belong to Him, the star of Christmas started to glow for me.

Just as it was over 2000 years ago for Mary and Joseph on the road from Nazareth to Bethlehem, mine has been a long journey.

In the weeks to come, I’ll share some of the more poignant moments along the way.

So, what are you waiting for? Living for? Wishing for? Dreading? Hoping for?

Seize Life!

For a while now I’ve reflected on beginnings and endings, unaware of how much more personal endings would soon become. I’ve missed a week here, because I missed a week in my life – and almost the rest of it.

After a “simple” hand surgery Tuesday last, disoriented with too much pain medication in my system for my slow metabolism, terrible nausea woke me in the middle of the night. After staggering to the bathroom, I accidentally took too much of an anti-nausea medicine which is very sedating. In the morning, I only responded with groggy words and my husband was concerned, but knew a friend was coming by in an hour to pick me up for church, so he left my cell phone by my ear and went on to work, calling me regularly. After I hadn’t answered more than twenty calls, he left a full schedule of patients and rushed home. When it was clear that I was deteriorating, he called EMS, and followed the ambulance to the Emergency Room.

I awoke in the ER, thinking I’d just had the hand surgery, with no memories of the preceding 24 hours. I couldn’t get my words out to answer their questions and couldn’t move my hands to follow their instructions — the middle of a nightmare.

After an afternoon of CAT scans and other tests, copious amounts of IV fluids, a huge amount of confusion and a great deal of humiliation on my part, they ruled out a stroke. Towards evening, I was improving, so they released me to my husband’s care. We arrived home to find my precious youngest daughter with dinner ready, and my sweet, declining mother with her arms open wide.

It was days before I really understood what had happened, and even more days before I began to feel like myself, as I was weak, had little balance and huge amounts of brain fog. But even in the midst of the splitting headache and waves of nausea, I felt a deep sense of gratitude for the people in my life – my husband and his love and intuition, my family and their loving care, my dear friends from church who called and prayed – one who came and took over when my daughter had to return to her family the next day, and prepared food to last us several days.

As a child, I was always told to wait until I was older to do what I wanted and learned early on to postpone enjoyment. Life was scary and harsh, so I engaged reality as little as possible. That helped me to survive a rough childhood, but that is no way to live. How many of our early-acquired defense mechanisms now keep us imprisoned?

In the days that followed The Big Scare, the fog lifted, colors seemed brighter, everything around me more beautiful, and the people in my life even more important. I moved in a deep current of the joy of living and the desire to make every moment count.

And gratitude, in huge waves and gulps, filling me, washing me and releasing me.

As Solomon wrote in Ecclesiastes 9:7-10 in The Message

Seize life! Eat bread with gusto,
Drink wine with a robust heart.
Oh yes—God takes pleasure in your pleasure!
Dress festively every morning.
Don’t skimp on colors and scarves.
Relish life with the spouse you love
Each and every day of your precarious life.
Each day is God’s gift. It’s all you get in exchange
For the hard work of staying alive.
Make the most of each one!
Whatever turns up, grab it and do it. And heartily!
This is your last and only chance at it,
For there’s neither work to do nor thoughts to think
In the company of the dead, where you’re most certainly headed.

With a fresh sense of the value of each moment, for living now, valuing my priorities, I’m relishing each task, learning to make the most of all of my life, not waiting for high moments or perfect circumstances.

Letting my Lord’s love pierce me through and through, I am choosing to gift that freedom to everything I set my hand to do, whether loading the dishwasher, walking the dog, playing the guitar or singing in church, hugging a hurting friend, dancing with my youngest grandchild turning one, walking with my husband in the cool of the evening . . . the full range is exciting to embrace, and it’s all a wonder.