aching, waiting, trembling, rejoicing
I sit here with a hot mug, cheeky cheesy Christmas notes fluttering around my ears begging me to smile, to be happy, and I just can't.
I wish the aching in my heart was only due to yet another loss of a favorite garment (an inevitable byproduct of all our moving), or some other triviality that I easily elevate to Disaster Level.
But my heart aches for Sydney, for Afghanistan, for children who know more terror now than I may ever feel in my lifetime. For hostages and martyrs whose heads roll at the feet of those whose minds somehow think this is right. For hurting rioters and the policemen who do care. For those who raise their way to fly to these places, with the balm of a Healer in their carry-ons, and a heart of compassion in their chests, only to meet death, disease, broken marriages, hurt children on the other side. Missionary life is so glorified, but oh how it is a constant ache to those who actually do go.
Oh come, all ye faithful
Joyful and triumphant
I stopped this song two lines in. When I see the faithful, why do I see the weary? Why are they marked by sacrifice and defeat while evil rejoices in triumph? Why do I write, Oh Jesus, come soon. But DON'T come soon because so many more need to know. I sigh at how many Christmas wish lists I've written, the wonder I don't feel. The trees are trembling with an ache for His return, and I find myself identifying more with the trees outside rather than the glowing ones inside.
The bare ones, cold and shivering, aching for their King.
He is worth it.
What? Yes, those are the words I hear from a missionary in Afghanistan, as she bears the weight of the loss she and her friends face out the desolation and despair. He is worth staying rooted in the cold ground, shaken by the winds, frozen by the ice. She is one of the faithful, coming to the Manger, beholding Him in triumph, because He is her triumph. He is her Joy, she knows this. He does not merely give joy; He embodies it. She knows peace is not an emotion as the enemies loom, as terror whips around her bare branches. Rather, He is peace. Her heart is fixed on eternity, on the Golden City where peace reigns and hearts will be reunited. She lets death remind her of the place where pain will cease, where her Savior is and rules. Where this life is but a harshly glorious memory of the joyous truth that h e i s s o w o r t h i t.
The rooted, aching trees out in the cold will remain, while the pretty, twinkling ones in the living room will be torn down. Oh, Lord, tear down the temporal, build up the eternal, encourage Your fervent workers. Give us patience as we ache and pray for Your Kingdom to come, and may we see everything we give up, voluntarily or otherwise, is worth it because of You.
Oh come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free
Thine own from Satan's tyranny
From depths of Hell Thy people save
And give them victory o'er the grave
Oh come Thou Dayspring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death's dark shadows put to flight
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, oh Israel.
I wish the aching in my heart was only due to yet another loss of a favorite garment (an inevitable byproduct of all our moving), or some other triviality that I easily elevate to Disaster Level.
But my heart aches for Sydney, for Afghanistan, for children who know more terror now than I may ever feel in my lifetime. For hostages and martyrs whose heads roll at the feet of those whose minds somehow think this is right. For hurting rioters and the policemen who do care. For those who raise their way to fly to these places, with the balm of a Healer in their carry-ons, and a heart of compassion in their chests, only to meet death, disease, broken marriages, hurt children on the other side. Missionary life is so glorified, but oh how it is a constant ache to those who actually do go.
Oh come, all ye faithful
Joyful and triumphant
I stopped this song two lines in. When I see the faithful, why do I see the weary? Why are they marked by sacrifice and defeat while evil rejoices in triumph? Why do I write, Oh Jesus, come soon. But DON'T come soon because so many more need to know. I sigh at how many Christmas wish lists I've written, the wonder I don't feel. The trees are trembling with an ache for His return, and I find myself identifying more with the trees outside rather than the glowing ones inside.
The bare ones, cold and shivering, aching for their King.
He is worth it.
What? Yes, those are the words I hear from a missionary in Afghanistan, as she bears the weight of the loss she and her friends face out the desolation and despair. He is worth staying rooted in the cold ground, shaken by the winds, frozen by the ice. She is one of the faithful, coming to the Manger, beholding Him in triumph, because He is her triumph. He is her Joy, she knows this. He does not merely give joy; He embodies it. She knows peace is not an emotion as the enemies loom, as terror whips around her bare branches. Rather, He is peace. Her heart is fixed on eternity, on the Golden City where peace reigns and hearts will be reunited. She lets death remind her of the place where pain will cease, where her Savior is and rules. Where this life is but a harshly glorious memory of the joyous truth that h e i s s o w o r t h i t.
The rooted, aching trees out in the cold will remain, while the pretty, twinkling ones in the living room will be torn down. Oh, Lord, tear down the temporal, build up the eternal, encourage Your fervent workers. Give us patience as we ache and pray for Your Kingdom to come, and may we see everything we give up, voluntarily or otherwise, is worth it because of You.
Oh come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free
Thine own from Satan's tyranny
From depths of Hell Thy people save
And give them victory o'er the grave
Oh come Thou Dayspring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death's dark shadows put to flight
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, oh Israel.
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