rejoicing and resting, grieving and grateful

 

"My soul magnifies the Lord,

and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,

for he has looked on the humble estate of his servant. 

For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed;

for he who is mighty has done great things for me,

and holy is his name.

And his mercy is for those who fear him

from generation to generation.

He has shown strength with his arm;

he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts;

he has brought down the mighty from their thrones

and exalted those of humble estate;

he has filled the hungry with good things

and the rich he has sent away empty.

He has helped his servant Israel,

in remembrance of his mercy,

as he spoke to our fathers, 

to Abraham and to his offspring forever."

- the Magnificat, Luke 1:46-55

 "Be gentle with yourself in this season. Be gentle with your own soul like Mary here, cradling her precious, fragile baby, because I think the God who came to join us in the darkness is often far gentler with us that we are with ourselves. Amidst lockdowns and loneliness, at the end of a tumultous and troubling year with the days closed early by the thick darkness and the world seeming dysfunctional and grumpy, don't be surprised if your heart is weary. Don't feel inadequate if you yearn for countless things (like friendship and escape and solitude and hugs and beauty) and can't always explain why. Don't be afraid to need - God and people and nourishment and rest. We are fragile little things, made and cradled by God, and to walk with him doesn't just mean being strong, it mostly means being held. Cradled, like a babe in arms. Treasured like an exhausted, tantrummy child tucked tight into bed and snuggled until the tears cease. 'Like a weaned child rests against his mother, so is my soul within me'. If you find yourself at your end tonight, remember those words and think on this image and let your soul ease back into the circle of God's gentleness, the tender place that always waits to receive and shelter you. We're [in] Advent, but the heart of this season is the gift of Immanuel, God with us in the shadows, holding the little children and healing their broken hearts." - Sarah Clarkson, who has blessed me immeasurably through her instagram this year, and has inspired or previously shared several of the lovely poems and things I've shared here

"Rest is the conversation between what we love to do and how we love to be. Rest is the essence of giving and receiving; an act of remembering, imaginatively and intellectually but also physiologically and physically. To rest is to give up on the already exhausted will as the prime motivator of endeavor, with its endless outward need to reward itself through established goals. To rest is to give up on worrying and fretting and the sense that there is something wrong with the world unless we are there to put it right; to rest is to fall back literally or figuratively from outer targets and shift the goal not to an inner static bull's eye, an imagined state of perfect stillness, but to an inner state of natural exchange."  -David Whyte

Betwixt and between emergency work-scheduling, church zooms, and stress-dreams that involve the coffee-shop award being a scam, and new bizarre Christmas movies popping up, I am trying to put into practice that heavy-duty resting that is so essential during the tumult of extra work and stress. The chaos and grit is not exactly new in this heavy year, but it doesn't cease being hard by nature of its frequency. 

This year, this life, this week, need a special kind of grace. And I know that I am not alone in this. Some of your aches I know, of some I have an inkling, and some I can't even begin to guess. I am boundlessly grateful that there is One who perfectly Sees, Knows, and Cares, about each and every one of the griefs borne by each and every one of us. Carry them to Him as you can, or sit down where you are, unable to lift one more thing, and call on His name. Jesus. Messiah. Emmanuel. Come to be with us, to redeem the days that seem lost to us. Come to 'wrap our injured flesh around him, breathe our air and walk our sod'.

And so we hold on to the Healer, even as we sit in the brokenness of this world.

So also, we claim and declare the beauties, glories, and graces that we see in our days. The gifts and blessings, whose lavishness we hold as a promise of His Great Goodness, even while our sorrows have never felt more real. We speak life, because we know that Love and Life will win, and because claiming this hope as our own, mirrored in these daily sparks of joy, can help us get through this difficult now.

In the darkness of these shortening days

two flames declaring that Christ is coming

Christmas lights on houses 

moonlight through lace

Aching backs and bones

blanket yoga

gummy vitamin C and melatonin

In isolation

bananagram nights

zoom church

hot chocolate and quiet coexisting with a coworker

When days and years can leave us feeling in the need of Atlas shoulders

underneath are the everlasting arms

when loved ones reach out across the miles, a touch of Advent joy, we wait together

a rare hug

a porcelain church, waiting on a shelf to point us to the realness of this season, the 'come and sit' of this season, the 'enter here and be safe', the 'you too can temple the living God' of this season

small plants, reaching their fresh leaves toward the light

books just ripe and overflowing with quotes to lift the soul

a Lord who says, 'wake up sleeper, rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you' and then brings us to life with his own strength, when we feel unable to open our eyes. Yes, he will shine on you.  

baths, in the offing

Christmas lo-fi jazz on youtube

I hope you find rest tonight, and new grace tomorrow. If you have a minute, I do recommend that blanket yoga. And if you don't, then I hope that lofi-christmas is a peaceful soundtrack for your full moments.

Till tomorrow then, darlings