I turn on the Christmas lights so I can see the sparkle from the road as I arrive home from my pre-dawn run. And also for the Boy, so he can see when he comes downstairs in his every day joy.
I turn the lights on in the nativity and pause.
When have I ever stopped to See what this is,
and not just see it as a holiday decoration?
I stretch near it, breathing deeply. I consider what it represents.
Lives were changed here. In a barn.
I think of Mary and what her life was like before Him.
What did she think about?
What were her dreams and hopes?
All of these questions bubble up inside of me.
I wonder about the moment just before the angel appeared before her.
Why did He choose that moment to bring the angel?
What was her moment like before that happened?
I think of the thoughts I've wrestled with lately.
Hope for another child has resurfaced after I've tried to tuck it neatly away and just wait on Him.
I've ended up angry at myself for not being able to stuff it back down again.
I've struggled with the questions again.
The *waiting* for His will to be revealed has been incredibly difficult.
I just want to know.
I want control.
Fear keeps me clinging for control.
I think of the words I read earlier.
Words from one soul that showed up in another's.
Words of having a God-breathed life.
Words that stick with me like the snow begins to do on my lawn.
White snow that reminds me of His cleansing.
Out for a run a good ten minutes later than usual, I notice the heavy traffic and find it as odd.
Step by step I become more frustrated in how my run has been interrupted by the delay of waiting for cars passing. I wonder where these people are going so early, and see that several are going to church.
I wonder, why church, today?
And then I remember. This is evidence of a *God-breathed life.*
Not my plans. And not all about me.
He reminds me there are others in this world searching to know about Him, just like me.
He gently speaks to me about a thought I've had sprinkled through the years--of adoption. I sputter that it doesn't make sense.
He tells me a story needs to be lived first, before I can be a part of it.
He reminds me that He knows what is best.
And all I can do is trust.
As anxious as my heavy heart is, and as much as I wonder and ache for His will to be revealed, I know I can't rush ahead of Now.
I choose to rest into Now.
He tells me to accept my humanness. After all, He does.
And so, I tell Him how hard it is. He reminds me that I am not expected to surrender so perfectly, or even perfectly rest.
He invites me to Just. Be.
And there is where I find it. Rest.
Amidst the busy, it's there. Just waiting to be unwrapped.