Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

No Room

When I was at the doctor’s office for a prenatal visit recently (something that is beginning to feel like a part-time job these days), I came across a diagram with two side-by-side images, one depicting the internal organs of a woman before pregnancy, and one with a child inside.

I was stunned to see the way the pregnant woman’s insides shifted and squished into odd pockets to accommodate her new resident. The bladder, I noted with special interest, was tucked underneath the baby and all but flattened. This explains so much!

I think about Mary and Joseph knocking on door after door in Bethlehem, looking for someplace that would accommodate them, only to hear over and over, “No room.” I wonder if Mary felt a twinge of irony at those words as she looked at her extravagant belly. You want to hear about no room? Please talk to my gallbladder!

But there’s a secret about hospitality—one that a woman great with child knows in an intimate way: There is never room. You have to say yes and trust that the space will grow to accommodate your guest.

True hospitality means you don’t wait until you have a bigger house, a bigger budget, a bigger heart. You don’t wait until you have more time, more margin, more furniture. You extend the invitation in faith, and trust that your space will expand, proportional to the need.

This Christmas, hospitality looks very different than it does most years. For most of us, there won’t be large gatherings, holiday parties, dinners with friends. So what does hospitality mean in the face of a pandemic and social distancing? Maybe, in reality, hospitality is smaller in scope than we think. Maybe it’s simply about making room within our crowded lives for someone who needs a little love.

This year, maybe hospitality looks like loving the people directly in your bubble. Maybe it means setting aside your crowded to-do list and making space to listen or play with Legos or whisper a prayer. Maybe it means expanding the borders of your heart to love someone who isn’t particularly lovable. Maybe it means saying yes to something you know is right before you’ve figured out exactly how to pull it off.

Maybe hospitality means saying yes before the space is there, before the energy is there, before the love is there . . . and trusting that God will make a space where there wasn’t any before.

Into this world, this demented inn in which there is absolutely no room for him at all, Christ comes uninvited.

Thomas Merton

Those Twins, Hope and Fear

In the midst of Advent, we find ourselves in the space between.

Between the promise and the fulfillment.
Between the announcement and the arrival.
Between the almost and the not-yet.

There is beauty in the in-between time, as we light candles and imagine a future of fulfilled hopes. But there is also trembling, as we put our most vulnerable dreams on the line, crowded by so much uncertainty.

I’m reminded of that haunting line from “O Little Town of Bethlehem”:

The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight

O Little Town of Bethlehem

As anyone who has ever waited knows, true Advent isn’t just opening windows on a calendar, ticking off the days until Christmas. Waiting is full of hope, yes, but it’s also fraught with angst. There is so much we don’t know: When? How long? How? And what will the waiting cost?

As we count down the days until we meet our baby, we find ourselves in an Advent of our own. When will Baby arrive? How much longer will our waiting be? Will we know when it’s time? What will we find on the other side of our waiting?

There’s a poem by John Donne that includes this gem of a line:

Pregnant again with th’ old twins, Hope and Fear

John Donne

And that’s exactly what waiting feels like, what Advent feels like: hope and fear, mingled inextricably together. We can’t have one twin without the other. We have no choice but to carry the weight of both.

But from where we stand, on the other side of the Incarnation, we have a hint about how the story ends. While we will contend with both hope and fear as long as we live on this earth, one day fear will be swallowed up forever. One day hope will win.

And so we let those twins wrestle inside us as we wait, knowing that Christ’s birth ushered in an era of hope. And when he returns, all our hopes will be forever met in him.  

The Incarnation is the place, if you will, where hope contends with fear.

Kathleen Norris

When Your Belief Breaks

Sometimes people assume that faith is a crutch, a sign of weakness. But I would venture to say that believing in something you can’t see is actually an act of strength, courage, heroism even. Cynicism comes cheap and easy. It doesn’t require vulnerability. It doesn’t leave your heart tender and exposed. Cynicism is the easy road.

But faith? That’s another matter altogether.

When I was waiting and hoping for God to bring a baby into our family three years ago, I chose believe as my word for the year. A friend gave me a bracelet with the word etched into it, and I wore it all year. I’m not sure I ever arrived at whole-hearted belief, but wearing it felt like a promise, a down payment, something I was trying to live my way into.

After Graham was born, I passed the bracelet along to a friend who was trying to cling to belief herself. She wore it too, and God did a miracle in her life—both the internal kind and the big-answer-to-prayer kind. Then one day recently as we were praying together, she said, “I think it’s time for you to have this back.”

I blinked away tears as I fastened the familiar clasp. I’d been trying to believe again—for another miracle, another baby. But my belief felt fragile at best, and at times, nonexistent. It seemed too dangerous to put my heart out there to be hurt again. What if God said no? Could our relationship sustain that kind of disappointment? Wouldn’t it be safer not to hope, not to ask?

I found myself choking on the prayers, swallowing the words before they could make their way out. But every morning I fastened the bracelet, and that act itself felt like prayer.

Until one day when I was washing my hands, and without warning, the bracelet broke, clattering onto the cold tile floor. I’m sure there’s a rational, scientific explanation for what happened. But heaven help me, I’m a former English major, so instead my mind swirled with literary terms. Surely this was symbolism. Or foreshadowing. Or metaphor.

My belief is too flimsy.
My belief is broken.
My belief is damaged beyond repair.

But as I read the Christmas story through the lens of someone who is trying to believe, I find I’m in good company.

Zechariah said, “How can I be sure?”
Mary said, “How can this be?”
Joseph decided to divorce her quietly.
The shepherds were terrified.

It appears that God doesn’t choose those with the most rock-solid faith. He doesn’t pick the ones who are sturdy, immovable, fearless.

He chooses ordinary people—ordinary people who serve an extraordinary God. Because our faith doesn’t depend on how hard we hope or how firmly we believe; our faith is built on the One we believe in, the object of our belief. The ground doesn’t become less solid if we doubt it will hold us.

And so as we find ourselves in the season of miracles, the season of the impossible, I want to choose the vulnerable road of belief. Will you join me?

A waiting person is someone who is present to the moment, who believes that this moment is the moment.

Henri Nouwen

If there’s something you are daring to entrust to God in the year ahead, please let me know—I would be honored to believe on your behalf.

***

Postscript: Between the writing and posting of this blog, my servant-hearted husband fixed my bracelet. I have a hunch there’s a metaphor somewhere in there too . . . something about how belief is not a solo activity but a communal venture. Thank you, Daniel, and thanks to all the people who believe alongside us.

The Irrational Season

One year ago on Christmas Eve, I was holding my three-year-old niece in church as we sang “Silent Night.” My heart was as frozen as the sheet of ice outside. I was feeling much more “bleak midwinter” than “all is calm, all is bright.”

The candles were lit, and the magic was all around me. But no magic was making its way past my Gore-Tex heart.

Round yon virgin,
Mother and Child

Would I ever get to be a mom? I wondered. Another year had passed with no answer, no miracle. And I felt weary. Believing was too hard, too painful. Maybe it was time to concede graciously, to admit that this just wasn’t part of the plan. Maybe it was time to pick up the shreds of hope littered across the floor of my heart and move on.

That’s when my niece looked up and started staring at something near the front of the church. “What is it?” I asked. But she just kept staring, mute. Finally the spell was broken. “I saw an angel,” she told me matter-of-factly.

After the service was over, I did a full interrogation of my niece. Surely this was a misunderstanding or the product of an overactive imagination. But she wouldn’t budge from her claim. And in the quiet of my heart, I sensed God whispering, Do you believe I can still do the impossible? Do you think I’ve retired from performing miracles? You have plenty of head knowledge about me, but do you really believe? Do you believe I can work in your own life, right now, this year?

In that moment, I didn’t know. I wanted to believe, but I wasn’t sure I did.

So I did the best I could: I told God I would try. I decided my word for 2017 would be believe—not because I did, but because I wanted to learn. I hoped he could thaw my icy heart.

***

One year later, we were singing “Silent Night” again. Only this time I didn’t light my candle, because my arms were full. I was holding a baby in my arms—my own sleeping son.

Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace

As I tried to wipe away the tears before they splashed onto my baby, I saw clearly that belief isn’t something you earn. It isn’t something you can take credit for. It’s a gift, pure and simple. It’s a piece of grace given to the likes of someone like me who doesn’t deserve it.

2017 didn’t have to end the way it did. I know full well that some people believe with more fervor and faithfulness than I could muster and don’t get the answer they long for. I don’t know why. But I do know that belief is worth it. Because even if we don’t get the thing we want, belief moves us. It changes us. It softens us. It thaws us.

No matter how things turn out, belief draws us close to the heart of the God who loves us.

This is the irrational season
when love blooms bright and wild.
Had Mary been filled with reason
there’d have been no room for the child.
~Madeleine L’Engle

Whatever you are believing God for in 2018 (or trying to believe), may God give you the courage to hope again. And when you can’t hope, may you feel the warmth of his arms around you.

God in Flesh and Blood

When you picture God, what come to mind? A stately King on his throne? A grandfatherly type with a beard? A disembodied being? It’s hard to picture God—and for good reason, since no one can look at his face and live to tell.

And that is true . . . to a point. But then Christmas comes and shatters all our preconceived notions. Christmas comes, and we have to rewrite our narrative of who God is and what he is like. Christmas comes, and we no longer have a God in the abstract. Christmas comes, and we have a God whose face we can gaze into, a God in flesh and blood.

After Jesus was born, Scripture says Mary “pondered these things in her heart.” I’ve always loved the idea of Mary pondering, but now I know why she pondered. When you are sitting there nursing your newborn son in the middle of the night, when everyone else is asleep and no one is posting anything new on Instagram, there is little to do besides ponder.

Among the things Mary must have pondered: The Christmas carols have it all wrong. It was not a silent night. All was not calm. I’m pretty sure there was blood and tears and labor pains. And the bit about “no crying he makes”? My apologies to the writer of “Away in a Manger,” but I’m pretty sure the little Lord Jesus cried.

This Christmas, as I hold my own baby son in my arms, I am struck anew by the sheer scandal of the incarnation. I can understand why the old hymn writers presented a scrubbed version of the manger scene. After all, how could a holy God allow himself to be covered in spit-up? How could the God of creation pee right through his swaddling cloths?

God entered our humanity completely—not just the beautiful, put-together parts, but also the messy parts, the sad parts, the ugly parts. He knows firsthand what it’s to be awake in the middle of the night. He knows what it is to be hungry, to cry, to be human.

So why would he do it? Why give up glory and honor in favor of late-night feedings and tears and dirty diapers? In a word: love.

Though he was God,
he did not think of equality with God
as something to cling to.
Instead, he gave up his divine privileges;
he took the humble position of a slave
and was born as a human being.
~Philippians 2:6-7

May we ponder the Incarnation in a fresh way this year—the scandalous reality that God would allow himself to come to us in the flesh. Ponder it now—the God of the universe, with a body we could hold. With a voice we could hear. With a face we could kiss.

God in flesh and blood.

’Twas much that we were made like God long before, but that God should be made like us, much more.
John Donne

Waiting with Joy

One year ago, exactly, I was waiting for a phone call. I was ready, bursting with anticipation, my phone glued to my hip all day and all through the night. My sister was expecting her second baby, and the plan was for Mom and me to jump in the car as soon as we got the call. We’d make the two-and-a-half hour drive so we could watch big sister Addie while her mom and dad were in the hospital.

It was an Advent like no other, waiting for this baby son to come into the world.

Oh come, Oh come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear

The call came at 2:00 a.m. in the dark quiet of a snowy morning. I leaped out of bed before the second ring. “It’s time,” my sister said. “We’re headed to the hospital.”

After all the waiting, all the expectation, all the hope, it was time. This long-awaited baby was coming.

Rejoice, Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, Oh Israel!

The arrival came with pain, to be sure. But when Baby Grant came into the world, there was indeed much rejoicing.

This Advent I found myself waiting again. But this time, instead of waiting for a birth, I was waiting for a death.

Once again I kept the phone beside me night and day, waking and sleeping. But this time my heart weighed three hundred pounds each time the phone rang.

My grandfather had lived a good life. He was a man of the greatest generation—a hard worker and a man of quiet but deep faith. He never would have abided my saying so, but he was a hero: first as a B-17 pilot over Europe during World War II and then as the faithful father to twelve children. He had been married to my grandma for almost 71 years—a lifetime in itself. His was quite a legacy: a legacy of faithfulness and wit and wisdom and love and dozens upon dozens of people who share his name.

And now he was ready to go home. I kissed his cheek last Sunday, aware that it would likely be the last time on this side of heaven.

I knew it was time—we all did. And yet somehow 94 still seemed too young. God has planted eternity in our hearts, which means that death always comes too soon. We are made for life, not death.

Oh come, Thou Dayspring, come and cheer
Thy people with Thine advent here;
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death’s dark shadows put to flight

The call came one evening after dinner, and somehow I missed it. I must have been in the basement, throwing a load in the wash. My dad’s voice was on the message: “I have good news and bad news,” he said. “It’s bad news for us, because we’ll miss him. But it’s all good news for him.”

At Advent we celebrate the gift of Emmanuel. God with us, to comfort those who mourn in lonely exile. God with us, to disperse the gloomy clouds of night. God with us, to put death’s dark shadows to flight.

As we inhabit this weary world, we grieve and we wait and we ache. But we also rejoice, because death isn’t the end of the story. The pangs of death make way for new life—the kind of life that never ends.

Until then, we wait. And we wait with joy.

God with us. Us with God. Emmanuel.

Rejoice, Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, Oh Israel!

Baby Son

nativityI am on a double countdown ’til Christmas this year. My new baby niece or nephew is due any day, and the two calendars are racing. Which will make its debut first? Baby Jesus’ birthday, or the birth day of this new baby?

When my sister was little, she prepared for Christmas like it was her job. She convinced Dad to cut down the tip-top of a pine tree from the woods to put in her room, and Mom helped her string lights from her ceiling. By mid-December, Meghan’s room was a full-blown Santa’s workshop. She’d haul up every craft supply she could find and post a note on the door, with dramatic underlines: “TOP SECRET! Keep out.” She’d spend every waking moment the final weeks before Christmas making all manner of glittery cut-out snowflakes and construction-paper ornaments for the whole family.

This year Meghan is doing a different kind of preparation as the days tick down. She’s getting a room ready for the baby. She’s packing a go-bag for the hospital. She’s making weekly treks to the doctor, checking to make sure the baby is in position. She’s prepping two-year-old Addie to be a big sister (including the possibility that, despite Addie’s adamancy that’s it’s a girl, there’s a chance she may be getting a brother).

There is so much we don’t know about this baby. Besides the gender, we don’t know what this child will look like, what kind of personality is tucked into that curled-up body, what this little one will become someday, or how the world needs this child, specifically. And yet our hearts are full of anticipation. So much longing, so much joy over this tiny person, veiled in so much mystery.

And it occurs to me that Mary must have felt much the same. It’s funny, isn’t it, that some of the biggest miracles come to us in such small packages? I wonder why God would come so tiny, so unobtrusive, when He could have come in pomp and circumstance.

In church last weekend my husband played the song “Baby Son” by John Mark McMillan, and I couldn’t help but think of the baby son (or daughter) my family is waiting to meet. So much future, so much hope, packed into seven pounds of flesh.

We thought you’d come with a crown of gold
A string of pearls and a cashmere robe
We thought you’d clench an iron fist
And rain like fire on the politics

Would I have missed Him that first Christmas, I wonder? Would I have been so busy looking for a flashier miracle that I would have overlooked the ordinary mother and her baby? Would I have deigned to believe that God’s plan to save the world could start with something so small?

But without a sword, no armored guard
But common born in mother’s arms
The government now rests upon
The shoulders of this baby son

A field of daffodils begins with a single bulb. An avalanche starts with a tiny snowflake. A classic novel starts with a solitary word. An epic love story starts with a simple greeting. A person begins as a tiny baby.

And the hope for the world began with someone so small you could hold Him in your arms.

God delights in the small things, the ordinary things, the unexpected things. I always thought that was so everything would be unveiled at the right time and so all the prophecies would be fulfilled just so. But now I think there’s another reason too: because God knows we can only handle so much miracle at once. If He gave us the full-blown itinerary, we would melt into a puddle. And so He births some of His most beautiful, magnificent plans as small beginnings.

Have you no room inside your heart
The inn is full, the out is dark
Upon profane shines sacred sun
Not ashamed to be one of us

So I’m spending this season in anticipation, alongside Mary and Meghan. I find myself waiting . . . waiting for Meghan’s baby son (or daughter). And waiting for God’s own Baby Son, who came once and will come again.

Our hearts are ready. We are longing for you. We have made room. Please come!

God’s coming is always unforeseen, I think, and the reason, if I had to guess, is that if he gave us anything much in the way of advance warning, more often than not we would have made ourselves scarce long before he got there.
~Frederick Buechner

The Legend of the Christmas Spider

fireplace3Every year before Christmas dinner, my family reads a Christmas story together. Mom has been collecting a large binder full of stories for decades now, and we used to flip through the pages and decide on one together. But we’ve had enough Christmases together that by now we’ve read all the stories. So this year the dish I’m bringing to pass is a story. I hope you enjoy it!

***

These days Shalom the Spider wasn’t just moving slower or going gray. Now she was officially, without a doubt, old. She’d raised her own brood of spiders—several sets of multiples—and watched her grand-spiders grow up. Now she even had great-grand-spiders. Generation after generation of her family had been born right here in this little barn in Bethlehem. Some of them had stayed in the village, and some had gone off into the world, seeking new lands and new adventures.

But Shalom had been content to stay where she was—right in the barn where she’d been born and where her mother and grandmother before her had lived. This was where they’d taught her to spin and where they’d spun tales of their own.

Although Shalom had never had an itch to explore distant lands, there was one place she wished she could have visited before she died: the holy city. She’d heard tales about this place from the generations before her, as they told stories late into the night. How the tapestries in the Temple were made of rich purple and blue, how the lamps burned bright and warm all through the night. And most of all, how the people gathered at the Temple to wait for the Messiah who had been promised so many harvests ago.

Some spiders from her village came back to recount stories about their trek to the holy city—about the long climb up the mountain and how the pilgrims would sing together as they climbed so it felt more like an eight-legged dance than an arduous journey.

Every spring, Shalom had dreamed of making the trip, but every spring came and went, and she stayed home. There were offspring to care for, dinners to be caught, webs to be spun, and she could never get away. And now it was too late. Four of her knees were failing her, and they’d never carry her to the top of the Mount now.

It really didn’t bother her much anymore though; after all, she was content to be here in the place she loved, surrounded by her family for this final season of her life. But there were nights when the moon shone silver through the slats of the barn and a familiar ache would set in.

Tonight was one of those nights. So she did what she always did when she couldn’t sleep: she pulled out her special thread pile. She’d been collecting bits of string and fabric ever since she was young. Tiny pieces of cloth that fell off the donkey’s saddle. Sturdy threads from the hem of the farmer’s garment. Scraps of fabric from travelers’ satchels. Even precious purple threads that her friends had brought back for her all the way from the holy city.

Night after night she sat weaving the threads together. As tiny as each piece was, the weaving had grown fairly large after all this time—it was almost the size of the cattle trough by now. Shalom’s friends couldn’t understand why she’d go to so much effort for something so useless. “You don’t need a blanket,” they said. “You’re a spider. And it’s not like you’re going to take it to market to sell it.”

But Shalom wove on, her legs almost on autopilot by now. Truth be told, she didn’t know herself why she did it, only that it soothed her. It felt like something she was made to do.

***

The barn animals were all sleeping when she heard unfamiliar voices just outside the barn. Who could it be at this time of night? she wondered.

She saw the woman’s belly first. Oh, poor woman, Shalom thought. Her time is coming soon.

She was right about soon. In a matter of minutes, the usually quiet barn was filled with the squall of a baby’s first cry. A hush rippled through the barn as every animal turned to look at the Child.

What is it about this Baby? Shalom wondered. He looks like any other baby I’ve seen. But her heart wouldn’t stop its wild beating inside of her.

Before she even realized what she was doing, each set of her legs was bending beneath her, bowing before this Child-King.

The mother smiled at the Baby. “This straw will have to do for your bed, little one,” she said. “I’m only sorry I don’t have a blanket for you.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Shalom rose, not even noticing the way her knees creaked beneath her. The blanket! She could give her blanket to this tiny King.

As Joseph wrapped the baby in the blanket, Shalom’s eyes filled with tears. The Messiah has come to us! I didn’t have to trek far and long to find him. He came here, of all places. And now he’s being warmed by my scraps of thread.

The one who couldn’t be contained within an entire holy city was now wrapped in something so small.

God with us. In this very barn. On this very night.

Immanuel.

***

{Author’s note: According to a Polish legend, a spider made a blanket for the Baby Jesus on the first Christmas Eve. As a result, some Polish families decorate their trees with spiders and spider webs.}

The Third Week of Advent: Joy

fireplace3As a kid, I never understood why all the Christmas decorations were red and green except the Advent candles. Now don’t get me wrong, as a girl growing up in the 80s, I was a big fan of the pink and purple combo. But for Christmas?

Recently, though, I was doing some digging about Advent, and I discovered that each candle’s color has a specific meaning. In the liturgical calendar, purple symbolizes penitence and repentance, and it’s used for both Lent and Advent. Those three purple candles stand as tall, solemn reminders that this world is broken, that we are broken. Advent, a time of mourning.

Long lay the world
In sin and error pining . . .

But those candles in the wreath don’t remain cloaked in sadness. On Christmas Day, all the purple candles are replaced with white ones. White—the color of joy. Our mourning is over. The Messiah is here!

Joy to the world!
The Lord is come
Let earth receive her King!

So what about the one stray pink candle in the mix? According to tradition, the pink candle got its start centuries ago when monks were making Advent candles. As they mixed wax for the purple candles, it was almost as if the joy of Christmas couldn’t be contained. The white spilled over into some of the wax, creating the lone pink candle.

And isn’t that what Advent is? Mourning tinged with joy.

In my own life, there’s no doubt about it: sadness can creep into my joy. One minute everything is going great—I’m singing in the shower, dancing in the kitchen, bursting to start a new day. But the sadness can creep in so fast—with a single failure, disappointment, sharp word, or unmet expectation.

But joy? What if joy could creep in too?

Joy is stealthier than sadness, I think. It doesn’t always come with trumpets and fanfare. Sometimes joy sneaks in, more like melted wax. You may not even notice it’s there until you look down and see a rosy hue where there once was a melancholy purple.

That’s how Jesus came too—he who is Joy himself. His incarnation wasn’t brazen; it was quiet, small. But that quietness didn’t diminish the joy. Because joy has the power to seep in and permeate all the mourning, all the sadness.

No more let sins and sorrows grow
Nor thorns infest the ground
He comes to make his blessings flow
Far as the curse is found

Christmas reminds us of one of the best gifts of all: that joy can creep into our sadness too.

It’s as if the third week of Advent is telling us, “Hang on for one more week. Joy will creep in.”

Joy always finds a way to creep in.

Week 2 of Advent: Peace

frog and toadOne of the holiday traditions at my in-laws’ is the annual Rische Family Book Club. At Thanksgiving this year, inspired by our charming two-year-old nephew Colin, we all brought books we’d enjoyed as children. I remembered loving the Frog and Toad books as a kid, but I honestly couldn’t remember much about them.

So off I went to the library, feeling tall and rather foolish as I crouched beside the pint-sized bookshelves to find Frog and Toad Together. I read the first story planted right there on the carpet, instantly transported back several decades as I paged through the classic brown and green illustrations.

When I got to the end of the story, I grinned, remembering why I loved these books.

I am Toad.

The story “The List” is about a day in the life of Toad that sounds a lot like days I’ve had myself, minus the tweed jacket. When Toad wakes up in the morning, he realizes he has lots of things to do, so he decides to write everything down on a list.

On his list of things to do that day, he includes such important things as wake up, eat breakfast, get dressed, play games with frog, and go to sleep. “There,” Toad says. “Now my day is all written down.” Then he goes about his day, relishing each time he gets to cross something off his list.

When Frog and Toad are taking a walk (item #5 on his list), a strong wind suddenly whisks the list out of Toad’s hand. Frog suggests that they run after it, but poor Toad, paralyzed with disbelief, says, “I cannot do that!” After all, running after his list was not one of the things he’d written down to do that day. Frog, ever the faithful friend, chases after the runaway paper but isn’t able to catch it.

“I cannot remember any of the things that were on my list of things to do,” Toad says. “I will just have to sit here and do nothing.” So Toad sits there and does nothing, and Frog sits beside him.

***

It is the second week of Advent: the candle of peace.

Somehow it doesn’t seem coincidental that we would have a sacred reminder about peace in the midst of one of the busiest week of the year. My typical approach is to wait until everything on my list is accomplished before I embrace peace, but it never works. The list, after all, is never all crossed out. It only gets longer as the days march toward December 25.

Do you really expect me to find peace in the midst of all this? I ask God. Can’t you make things settle down and then I can rest? But as I think about that first Christmas, I’m reminded that peace didn’t come because everything was calm and quiet, with each item ticked off the list. Joseph was trying to check into a hotel. Mary was trying to remember her Lamaze. The shepherds were pulling another night shift. The wise men were lugging gold across the Sahara. Not exactly a silent night.

So maybe what God is trying to tell us about peace is that we can’t wait for everything to be in place before we seize it. We have to actively carve out space for peace right in the middle of the chaos. And sometimes that means throwing out our to-do lists (or at least forgetting about them for a while).

So today I invite you to toss aside your lists—the gift list, the grocery list, the baking list—and let them blow away in the wind. Hear your friend Jesus say to you, “Sit here with me and do nothing.”

Sit in the glow of the Christmas lights or the flicker of the candlelight, and just be.

Be at peace. Be still. Be loved. Be.