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White teeth.

There are so many white teeth in Christmas commercials.

These perfect white teeth gleam from perfectly formed smiles on perfectly dressed actors in perfectly decorated homes as perfectly cooked food emerges from the latest perfect appliances as the perfect father in the perfect J. Crew sweater brings the perfect turkey to the perfectly set Christmas table as the perfect family with all their silverware in all the right places and crystal goblets full of water and wine eagerly await the perfect Christmas Eve dinner.

The candles flicker.
The music plays.
The tree sparkles.
The snowflakes float.
The sun sets.
The sun rises.

It is now Christmas.

The children with perfect hair wake up and run down a perfectly polished wooden staircase wrapped in garland and lights and ribbons to open up perfectly wrapped presents under the perfect tree as mom and dad sit on their perfect sofas and take perfect photos wearing their perfectly matched pajamas.

Everyone gets what they want yet act perfectly surprised.

This is what Christmas looks like on TV.

In real life, when we head into the bathroom and take a break from our drunk uncles or our fighting parents or the annoying grandchildren and we check our Facebook/Twitter/Instagram/Whatever we are given glimpses into the worlds of those we know who, for the most part, share their own images of Christmas perfection. We rest against the bathroom wall and wonder why.

Christmas is love. Christmas is light. But for many of us, Christmas is one of the most difficult times of the year. Maybe there has been loss. Grief. Painful reminders of our brokenness or the brokenness of others.

We pause and we wonder.

Why?
Why me?
Why this?
Why us?

If that is you this Christmas season – if you are one who is hurting more than healing – you are not alone. The depths of the meaning of Christmas are for you. It’s not the smiling family or the perfect turkey or the iPad mini. It isn’t even the promise of feeling good during Christmas.

Christmas is a reminder that the One who is perfect – who brought His holy, pure love and grace to earth – became God and Spirit wrapped in flesh and was born into the most imperfect conditions because of one simple fact:

He loves you.

He loves you.

And though that love may be hard to see in the middle of media blitzes or as we virtually peer into the windows of those online, and though that love may be hard to feel because sometimes the silence of God can be more powerful than hearing His voice, that love is there and has you so tightly wrapped up and it will never let you go.

Never.

May your Christmas be filled with the love of Christ and the hope and joy he freely gives.

Anne

2010 was a year filled with grief and loss, betrayal and rejection in its most intimate form. The well in which I fell was so cavernous I thought I would surely die. Would I be saved? The dust from dirt on the bottom of the well filled my lungs as I breathed in, maybe for the last time. I prepared for impact. Suddenly, a rescue. Friends pulled me up with superhuman strength fighting the forces of gravity and hopelessness.

I was pulled back into the sun; its brightness causing me to face the demons both within me and outside me. One by one, a brutal fight. Victory was promised to me and I claimed it, but the battle-inflicted wounds were tender and my strength was gone.

In 2011, there were days of glorious beauty – with friends, with food, with wine, with music. Sunsets that inexplicably consumed my senses. Quiet walks in Radnor Park where I begged God for nourishment. For plenty. For restoration of what was lost.

“Your daily bread is enough,” was the response.

As the grey clouds increased, I lost sight of the suns and the sunsets. The wind was colder and the moon hid behind veiled fog and my spirit drifted away, focusing on the wounds I could see instead of the mystery I could not. Instead of roaming on the paths under silver pine, my fingers roamed the damages in my heart. I followed them back to the well from the past year; the well from where I had been rescued. It was tempting to fall back in.

December 2011 was my second Christmas season alone. The choice before me wasn’t clear but I marched away from the well and determined to celebrate the season with joy, regardless of what my emotions spoke. I went to Target and bought a small Christmas tree and a five dollar bag of ornaments and a box of big, globe bulb lights. It was only a tree, and a borderline tacky one at that with it’s glittery pink star, but it was symbolic of my choice to not swear at the Christmas music constantly barraging my eardrums and to embrace the season on anticipation that was before me.

I left Target. I was not praying. I was not pleading. I was not even thinking. The greats say mindfulness brings us closest to God and I couldn’t have been further from being mindful on this drive home. A collision. Not between steal and plastic and fiberglass but between grace and the well in my heart. Something so large, so redeeming and indescribable ran me over on northbound I-65 and my heart’s draw to the well was released. Freedom exploded in my chest as I wept from a fount of joy and living water I had never tasted before. I laughed and cried for a solid ten minutes wondering if this was a lavish gift from God, full of life and it was finally the day He chose to give it to me…or was I certifiably manic? I didn’t care. The truth would come with each sunrise.

It is now December 2, 2012, 365 sunrises later. A full year has passed since the glory of God literally filled me. And I can say without hesitation it was His gift in His time. Why did my heart suffer so long and so profoundly? Why did I crave my own death over my own life? Why did he not save me sooner? These questions will likely never be answered and that mystery is part of the healing. Even when the anxieties and uncertainties threaten me today, I know my heart is protected by a God as Father, incarnate as Son, and comfort as Holy Spirit. And I know there was no formula to arrive at this understanding, if it can be called that. It simply happened with no warning.

Was my soul groaning? Was the spirit interceding because I was empty and without words? That is my only logical conclusion. But the divine is wrapped in swaddling clothes, not logic. Hope was born in the least likely place to the least likely people so I must conclude the hope that changes the world will be poured down on us in the least expected ways.

A new season is born yet I am reminded of bereavement. As I take the same sidewalk to downtown Holland, Michigan each day, I see the unhurried passing of the red and yellow flowers in the park on my route. I grieve the loss of the fireflies and backyard parties; of trips to the lake and warmed skin. The fiery red and orange leaves burn the treetops until their barren brown limbs eagerly await the first frost.

Despite what the calendar says, I am almost certain autumn properly arrived yesterday in the form of the wind and the rain and the definite chill in the air that won’t disappear until May. As a cold drizzle slowly soaked me on my walk home from class, I accepted this transformation…

Continue Reading On Unanswered Questions on Relevant (there’s a haiku or two!)

Although summer is slowly turning to autumn, the season of Easter has been on my mind. A few years ago, I was in California for Holy Week and my dear friend Susan invited me to a Palm Sunday service at her church in Pasadena. I went to St. James’ in the evening—a sparsely attended service lit mainly by the glow of candles.

I took my seat next to Susan in an old, wooden pew and looked up at the light fixture above me. The light fixture above me was identical to the ones at St. Bartholomew’s, where I went to church back home. The familiarity caused me to grin as I sang.

Standing up during the rest of the songs, I allowed my hands to grasp the back of the pew in front of me, feeling each and every crack in the smooth wood. I wondered how many people had clinched the pew because of how lonely they were, just waiting to hear something—anything—from God…

Click to continue reading The Slow and Inefficient Work of God on Relevant Magazine.

How Much Love Does It Take to Matter?

The sun did not sympathize with the winter season. What should have been alive was dead, and the only green we saw was sewn into the fabric wraps women wore around their midsections as they carried their babies along the dirt road. Three of us walked in a dusty heat from the footbridge across a dry riverbed to Lindiwe’s homestead at the edge of the village.

Lavumisa is one of the most remote rural villages on the southeast side of Swaziland, a South African country unfortunately known for its gruesome AIDS statistics rather than its grandiose mountain landscapes, warm hearts or flawless starry nights. Swazis are forgotten people in a forgotten country, and the more removed someone is from the capital city of Mbabane, the more forgotten they become.

At a church service the night before, my missionary friends, Melissa and Jim, had learned about Lindiwe from a local nurse named Lisa. Lindiwe developed breast cancer two years ago, and as the country’s standard treatment offered, she had a mastectomy on her right side. There is no chemotherapy or radiation available in Swaziland. Nobody can afford it, and the hospitals don’t offer it.

Lindiwe is a traditional Swaziland mother who lives in a stick-and-stone mud hut with a thatch roof. Most of her family lives around her in similar structures, but only one was to be found inside her home when we arrived…..

Click to continue reading How Much Love Does it Take to Matter on RelevantMagazine.com

There was a season in life when my prayers included asking God to hold me—physically. I wanted to feel arms around me, keeping me safe and helping me not feel lonely in the nighttime hours, once the day quieted and the distractions faded with the sun.

I am a creature of habit, and most nights my routine was the same: read, turn off my lamp, pray, feel alone, pray again, wait, resign and eventually float off to a restless sleep. My twin-sized bed was as big as the ocean, and I was lost in the middle of it. Even in Tennessee’s summer heat, I rolled myself into as many blankets as I could stand so I would feel something—anything—surrounding me.

My prayers were not answered in the way I wanted, and I never understood why…

Click to continue reading The Many Faces of Mercy

The Power of Confession

Fear and loneliness are two inseparable lovers with a tragic common denominator: they seek to destroy the Kingdom within.

The Kingdom within. As believers, together we share this sacred bond. The Kingdom unites us—makes us one body. We need each other to function, to live, to thrive and to be Christ’s love and mercy here on earth. We are assured this communion will be challenging. The Gospel of John says the enemy is only out to defeat us. He is focused. He is attentive.

Fear and loneliness permeate the soul of our world. A recent survey conducted by the American Sociological Review noted that a quarter of Americans say they don’t have a close friend to confide in. When you add on the culturally imposed (and widely erroneous) requirements of “being a good Christian” today, I imagine that percentage goes up for those in religious circles. A community of believers should be the safest place one could turn and admit weaknesses. But in a world where holiness is based on a scale of morality and being faithful means never having doubts, it’s no wonder we keep our mouths shut and our masks on…

Click to continue reading The Power of Confession