Advent Thoughts

"When we've fallen, and when we're lost, God comes with one question. Not the question, 'Why did you do that?' Not the question, 'What did you do wrong?' The very first God-question of the Old Testament, of the whole Bible, is a love question howling out of God's heart: 'Where are you?'.....
.......Sometimes you can almost feel it; when you fall, He comes and unwraps that lying, stealing snake from your feet and wraps His arms around you--and you unwrap the very greatest gift; a love that never, ever lets you go."

 -Ann Voscamp, Unrapping the Greatest Gift: A Family Celebration of Christmas

My Ellie and I have been going through this book in these past three days of advent. This quote struck a deep chord in me. The picture of the serpent enemy tangling up my feet, and then the great Love coming down and unfurling the grip; it just took my breath away. And I can see it happening here in my life. I can see the grip loosening, and hope being restored through the love of God. I can catch a glimpse of hope in the life of the woman who miscarried her baby just last week. It is happening in the life of the couple with a marriage so painful because of sin so deep. And I know that the Gospel Story is really intersecting lives; that it is a relevant source of hope in the midst of sin and suffering and brokenness.

When God asks, "Where are you," it releases the grip, because it shows that His ultimate heart is to be near to us. His first question doesn't shake a fist or isolate us. It draws us in. This example from Genesis is a faint glimpse of what God would ultimately do to be near to us, his broken people, through the person of Christ coming to dwell in a fleshly womb in a fleshly body. He would know our suffering to the point of death, and he would swallow it up in victory through the resurrection.

Sometimes I forget that my story is a part of His story. Right now, through all of us, he is telling His story of redemption in every day situations, huge sorrows, and physical brokenness. This advent season, for the Winklers, includes waiting for January 2, when Ellie will have her third corrective hand surgery. Ellie's journey with a genetic disorder and hand malformations has really been fairly smooth, all things considered. While she has been cleared by the cardiologist, is gaining excellent every day use of her hands, and doesn't skip a beat in the personality department, the brokenness is there. It is real. The brokenness can be covered up, but then, inevitably, it comes back out of the shadows and envelopes me in fear. It hooks me when I catch a glimpse of how she can't bend her thumb at the knuckle joint, or when I wonder what I will do if anyone at school ever says her hands look funny. It straight up socks me in the gut when I think about the 50% chance of her passing this down to her children, potentially with much more severity than she experiences. I'm afraid of the anesthesia. I'm afraid of losing her, or of hurting her. I'm afraid of helping her navigate it all as a teenager. I'm afraid of seeing her painfully decide whether or not to have children. I'm afraid of all of the brokenness.

But in this season, how can I be waiting for a very near Savior, and yet at the same time, be bolting out so far away to fear-town?

My running away in the fear of all of this is the exact same thing as Eve's disbelief in God's love for her at the tree...when she ate that fruit because she didn't believe God had the very, very best love for her. But do you know what? When I run from the Love, He asks, "Whitney, where are you?" And I am once again undone by his love. I am once again able to stand, to trust, and to move forward another day. The fear-filled, doubt-filled grip of the serpent's grasp unleashes, and gives way to the freedom of life lived with a Savior who has borne the weight already.

And then I walk into the operating room and wait expectantly. I wait to see the unveiling of the cast and I watch the staples fall out, and the skin come back together.  I sit with her at the counter all night long when she is 13 and tell her the truth about who she is. And  I pray and dream for her womanhood; that it would be one that honors and shouts the name of  Jesus above all else through this broken story. And my hope is anchored once again.

Chandeliers and Long Roads

I am exactly 17 days away from the starting line of the Chicago marathon. This dream has been a long time coming; sparking from when my 19 year old self first laid eyes on the 45,000 runners barreling down LaSalle Street during my first magical autumn as a college student living in downtown Chicago. As with any long term goal, this one has come with lots of ups and downs.

Aside from my weekly "long run" with my trusty running bud, I spend my runs alone. For this extrovert, they can be quiet, and they can feel long and arduous. Today, my typical mid week 8 mile run was no different. I was really wanting to skip it altogether, but I gathered myself up enough to get down to the park and pound it out. Today I needed something different and a bit more energetic than my usual pandora station, so I turned it to a station called, "Today's Hits Radio." (I am SO with the times over here). As I ran, I couldn't help but be woken up to these words in a song called "Chandelier," by Sia.

I'm gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier
I'm gonna live like tomorrow doesn't exist
Like it doesn't exist

But I'm holding on for dear life, won't look down, won't open my eyes
Keep my glass full until morning light, 'cause I'm just holding on for tonight
Help me, I'm holding on for dear life, won't look down, won't open my eyes
Keep my glass full until morning light, 'cause I'm just holding on for tonight
On for tonight

Sun is up, I'm a mess
Gotta get out now, gotta run from this
Here comes the shame, here comes the shame

It was an upbeat and catchy song, for sure. But I just couldn't shake the hopelessness in it, so I switched the station to Indelible Grace. Let me tell you something. Indelible Grace is NOT one to typically pump my jog up. But, I just had to get away from that hopelessness. I had to get away from the girl denying that pain didn't exist when I knew at that very moment by the ache I felt that pain absolutely exists. I just had to get away from the girl that was shutting everyone and everything out for the night, only to wake up to all of the hurt and shame the next morning. 

The first song that played when I switched the station happened to be one of my favorite hymns, Abide With Me. 

1. Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
   The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide;
   When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
   Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me.

I need Thy presence every passing hour;

What but Thy grace can foil the tempter’s pow’r?

Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be?

Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.

1. I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;
   Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness;
   Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
   I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.
2. Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;
   Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies;
   Heav’n’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee;
   In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.
3. Who would have ever thought these two songs belonged back to back? I couldn't help thinking about the stark contrast. I mean, it is one thing to know that the world looks at life and hardship and joy different than a Christ follower. But it is another thing to hear these two world views so starkly expressed in the course of 6 minutes. I couldn't help but think of these two views in light of my then sweaty, tired state. 
4. When you are deep into a run, a lot of things go through your head. There are the small, mile by mile victories. There are the straightaway stretches, where you feel like you just might conquer the world. There are the water breaks, where you feel as if you could continue on without much mustering. There is the dreaming of the donut or Sonic strawberry limeade you might consume when you are finished.  But then, there is that dang, never-ending gradual uphill climb on Forsyth into Clayton. There is your toe that throbs with every step, because the nail is taking its sweet ole' time to detach from the nail bed. There is the quiet, when no one really knows, nor cares that you have been running for a ridiculous amount of time. There is the combined stench of sweat and the dust collecting on your face and neck from the gravel path. There are ups and there are downs. And there are a lot of moments where you are somewhere in between. 
5. Life is the juxtaposition between the joys and hardships. And it is what we do with that tension that both of these songs answer. The first one flees it. She runs to the ceiling, as far away as she can get from her troubles. She drowns it in the medicine to soften the blow. She finds a trite happiness, only to be hurled onto the waves at morning's dawn. The second song sits right there in the middle of the mess. When our Savior abides, he is with, alongside, among, and in the pain and the joy. He settles in with us. He stays for the haul; he doesn't just show up for the party.  Ignoring the incline does not bring the knee joints peace. Bandaids do not bring the the calloused toes peace. Peace, for a believer in Christ, comes through the presence of our Friend every passing hour, despite the changes in the rhythm of joys and trials. 
6. So what about the uphills?                                                           Abide with me.
7. What about the burst of energy?                                                  Abide with me.
8. What about the thirst?                                                                Abide with me.
9. What about the quench?                                                              Abide with me.
10. What about all the waiting and longing for the finish line?            Abide with me.     

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2. Sometimes when I run, I become keenly aware of my breathing. In and out, my lungs grab the air and expel it, reminding me of my humanness. At any moment, my heart could stop squeezing the blood, or my lungs might not retrieve the oxygen. The rhythm could stop. But today, I am on the journey. Today I face the human suffering of sore muscles and achey bones, and the joys of fall colors, a warm home, and healthy children. All of it is real. All of it deserves to be encountered. The beauty of the Abider is that He is willing to intersect all of it; the joys through our thankfulness and the grace of His giving hands, and the trials through our neediness and His faithfulness to see us in and through them. 

A couple years back, I sang Abide With Me at my grandmother's burial. It was a small, quiet Kentucky ceremony, and my hands were so cold in the winter air that I could barely hold my guitar chords. But, as I sang, I pictured her life. I pictured her running after her four children, going about the day to day. I pictured her in the kitchen making the best biscuits ever. I could remember her harshness and yet the light in her eyes that drew people to her. All of it. After her 80+ year race, it came down to the Abider. It came down to the one who loved her in her sin, died to save her from the resulting punishment, and then lived alongside her, delighting in her. He abided in the hard and lonely times; he abided in the crowded, happy times. His faithfulness would be the stamp on her life. His settled- in- presence would be the mark of her life in that cold, windy tent on the day of her burial. He shattered the chandeliers for the joys of seeing her all the way Home.

I cannot finish the race with a synthetic escape of the moment. But, I can indeed finish the race when I settle deep into the steady pain, calling for comfort, and when I find rooted delight in the faithfulness of the One who gives the next breath and pulse.

Let us not run to the chandeliers, but long for the Presence in the long, winding race ahead of us.

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Forgiveness

Sometimes we are thrust into tough relationships with other people, and no matter how hard we might try to make them work, they are just...a mess. Whether the problem is a constant struggle and tension with competition against them (somehow just not being able to celebrate them in anything they do or have), or an endless number of mis-communications and judgements that leave us wanting to sprint in the other direction every time we encounter them, these relationships are real and messy. Maybe you can think of one or two or more just like this in your own life. I know I can. Maybe you have "knock-down-dragged" it out with these folks, or maybe you are still in the fetal position. Either way, you have been hurt; they have been hurt, and reconciliation needs to happen.

One thing I have learned about the relationships in my life that have had these constant, nagging, uncomfy tensions, is that they are certainly more redemptive than the "easy peasy" friendships in my life. The relationships I have fought so hard to run from, and have hashed out, are often the ones I just couldn't get away from if I tried. I am drawn to them, not because they are easy, but because something about them reflects the gospel in a tangible way. I am drawn in, because they take me through the process of unearthing sin, mourning it, and forgiving it or being forgiven from it, resulting in an almost resurrected newness and life. The act of true forgiveness, when given out or received, roots these relationships so much deeper than circumstance.

Stephen, a martyr of the Christian faith, experienced the joys of  forgiveness even in his dying breath.
Acts 7:59-60 says,
" While they were stoning him, Stephen prayed, 'Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.' Then he fell on his knees and cried out, ' Lord, do not hold this sin against them' When he had said this, he fell asleep."

At first glance, we can look at this account and be simply inspired at a man who truly imitated the attitude Christ had on the cross. But what exactly was Stephen doing here? He was forgiving even during the act of being hurt. I don't know about you, but in my own relationships, I can hardly recall a time I have forgiven a person while they were in the process of hurting me. Usually, it is not until I have taken a step back, grieved my own pain, planned the perfect retaliation, realized said retaliation would be more harmful than good, cursed them in my head in the shower, etc, etc, etc that I could even begin to BEGIN look on them with compassion and love. But Stephen seemed to know the secret to forgiveness in the midst of pain. .

I believe that when we, as believers who have been wronged, look upon our adversary in such a way that we see not just the pain they have caused us, but the pain that their sin has cause God, we can be free to forgive them. In other words, when we see another person's sin as a direct result of their vertical broken relationship with God, we are moved to see that they are just like us. Instead of boasting in the "me against them" mentality, we see that we are parallels. We are fellows. We are sojourners. We are equals. We are both living in a broken world, sinning against a holy God...and hurting each other in the process. When we can have this radical shift in thinking, forgiving becomes not about the degree to which we have been hurt, or about how much we are owed before we can forgive, but it becomes about how gracious God has been to sinners, and how much none of us could ever pay Him back. Forgiveness becomes universal. We begin to gain a heart of compassion (not pity--they are different) for another person's broken relationship with God, instead of the alternative: more and more bitterness stirring itself up in our gut.

Then we can say, with Stephen, "Lord, do not hold this sin against them!"

Sin is a beast. And as a result, anger against sin can also be a beast. When we have been wronged deeply, it cannot be doubted that there are very real effects. As a matter of fact, there is a very real, and I believe good movement among our generation to feel pain, as opposed to "stuffing" it up inside. Even among believers, we are often called to sit in our pain and suffering and acknowledge it as real. While I think that there is a place for this type of thinking, I believe that we are also called to move out of anger, and certainly never to act on it.

James 1:19 says, "Know this, my beloved brothers; let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger; for the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God. 

If it is our desire as believers to be reconciled (which I would think/hope that is the case!), we will never reap that end through the sowing of anger. The righteousness of God is never achieved through the anger of a given person. Righteousness is accomplished in us through the grace that is shown in Christ. 2 Corinthians 5:21 say, "God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God."

 For us. Not just for that lady in the grocery line. Not just for our neighbor with the yappy dog. Not just for our husband.

For US.

As Christians, the vertical brokenness we experience with God has been mended in Christ. We can therefore go and forgive in the horizontal relationships where we have hurt and have been hurt. Let His grace birth a heart of compassion for the enemies in your life.

"Lord, do not hold this sin against them!"

Draw Me Nearer

Yesterday, my friend told me that it had officially been one year that she and her husband had been trying to conceive a child, and yet they have still not seen fruit of their hopes. Every month, they wait for the egg, and every month, they see: “not pregnant.”

 Today, one of my best friends sits in the intensive care unit, watching the mother of her youth skate very close to death. She waits; sings over her mother, words of hymns that she herself is having trouble believing. Her mother lifts one eyebrow every time her daughter starts to sing a new song, and with it, lifts a grain of hope in her daughter’s weak and angry heart.

 A mother sits in silence at home, waiting for her husband to return after a long day. Her children run circles around her, draining every inch of life from her. The world is a blur of monotony; a black hole of the same. Her living room curtains blow in the new spring air, but yet they are prison bars to her.

 Suffering. It comes in every imaginable way. From the cumbersome tasks that come along with being a mom to young kids; lifting the weight of your 23 pound ten month old way too many times in a day, until there is a knot in your back so deep, all the way to the sufferings of losing a mother too soon, or waiting on a baby that may never come. Suffering is pervasive. It is every day, everywhere; bleeding into every pore. Suffering is inevitable.

 I fight it. I push against suffering in every way. Don’t we all?

  That next night’s sleep will finally bring the rest I need. A back massage will ease the pain. If I can just find a dang minute to sit and watch my show, I will find the peace I need! If we could just get away from the kids for a few days to re-set…if you would just eat gluten free, your health wouldn’t be a problem…if you get on the right medicine, you will finally conceive, if, if, if….

 There is a reason we spend 99.99% of our time fighting suffering. It is because, deep down, we know it shouldn’t be. Deep down, we know that suffering was not the true intended way of created beings. It is counter- creation. It is marred. It feels all wrong. It is all wrong.

When God created this world and all that it holds, he called it very good (Gen 1:31). Then, suffering burst forth with a vengeance the very minute mankind decided that we wanted to be our own ruler. But the beauty among the ashes of this dismal truth is that, in Christ, we were not left there. In fact, the very punishment of our rebellion, namely suffering, is what Christ would use to make a way for us. Suffering would be the chosen avenue of Christ to relate with us, live with us, and die like us. It is fitting, then, that in Christ’s astounding and immeasurable grace, suffering would be our avenue to walk in communion with God, even though it was once what divided us from Him. In the face of weakness and pain, Christ would bestow grace and power.

 In 2 Corinthians 12: 7-10, Paul says,
 “I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. 8 Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. 9 But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. 10 That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”

 I have read this verse hundreds of times in my life as a Christian. “Yada, yada, yada… suffering…God is with me in suffering..blah blah.” But recently, I have been wrecked by this concept. The more I grow up, the more suffering unveils all around me. It has always been there, but now I see it in every crevice and corner. And as my faith grows, I am learning that pushing against suffering is often pushing away the avenue of God’s grace toward me. I feel that there are two ways that I see myself doing this. I sometimes supress suffering, by telling myself that it isn't a big deal, or someone else has it worse. In contrast, sometimes I don't let God walk alongside in my suffering, because I try to fix it myself. I find a million different avenues that are completely other than that of Christ's relational, understanding, go-before me presence. In doing both of these things, I rob my Father of the gift of loving on me. I miss out on the moments of letting Him sing truth over me while I angrily clank dishes in my kitchen sink. It is often a statement that I make, that I don’t need Him, or His abiding, comforting presence. Pushing back against suffering says that I would rather be cold and strong than weak and needy in my loving Father’s arms.

 We can’t reverse, or even really diminish the sufferings all around us. We can’t afford to hire a nanny, personal trainer, masseuse, and chef so that we can achieve pristine physical wellness (this sounds extremely trite, but it is just what we do when we push towards pampering, rest, and protection as a means to avoid suffering). We can’t take away that 4 year old’s leukemia, or offer holistic comfort to her mother by bringing her a basket of fruit. We can’t offer the homeless woman that stands on the Page Ave. exit an endless income that will reverse all of her emotional, physical, and financial travails.

 So we suffer. We ourselves suffer, and we suffer with others. We don’t push back. We enter in. We press into Jesus, the Sufferer. We may plead his grace to take it away, or we may simply plead the grace of His presence. But we plead with him, exchange with Him, engage Him. We claim His power over the suffering. We tell it to our friends when they don’t believe it. We pray it over the stranger on the street.

 And all the while, we see the face of God.

 I end with words from this timeless hymn (by Frances J. Crosby), that speak this truth so aptly. Being drawn to the Lord is being drawn toward the beauty of His suffering, and to His victory over suffering. It is a place of hope like none other.

  Draw Me Nearer, Blessed Lord
I am Thine, O Lord, I have heard Thy voice, and it told Thy love to me; But I long to rise in the arms of faith, and be closer drawn to Thee. Refrain: Draw me nearer, nearer blessed Lord, To the cross where Thou hast died; Draw me nearer, nearer, nearer blessed Lord, To Thy precious, bleeding side.