Christmas Tree House by Wil Triggs

Going to a farm or a mountain to cut down a Christmas tree belies the tricks of human perception. A tree that looks majestic and just right while it’s firmly planted into the ground outdoors, once chopped and transported back to the home, is transformed into something altogether different. Trying to carry it into the house on its side, like a hide-a-bed or a casket, the tree is suddenly too wide, needs to be trimmed to even it out; that one branch will have to be cut off or hidden somehow. The sap we never noticed seems to be everywhere, oozing and sticking to my hand with every grasp.

It is fresh, the fresh-cut aroma filling the air, but it takes up so much space in the room that seemed more than adequate before; now suddenly, it becomes one where we think of raising the ceiling or bumping the room out into the porch outside, or at least expanding the window into a bay.

Taming the tree, getting it trimmed down and put up and then decorated and lit, is so much harder than I thought, than I imagined it to be. But it’s a tradition we enjoy every year. We make it work.

Christmas is when people try to bring God into the house, too. Like the tree, a concept to be tamed, adapted, trimmed, made to fit into the homes we’ve made, and perhaps we want to give gifts to others to express our love, however mixed with a sense of obligation.

But for many, it is only for a season, and then, when the season is over, we unplug everything and drag it out to the curb for the trash. Lights we enjoy for the season and then, gone. Back to real life.

With God, the real God, there is no in season or out of season, and no obligation to suit us.

How much more wild is God than this tree at Christmas. Maker, Creator, the One audaciously being born in a place for animals, close to the wilds, outside the cozy inn. There’s no fitting him, really, into a home, no chopping him down to size or strapping him to the top of a car. Nevertheless, we marshal on.

Then, without much warning, suddenly it seems, we’re not bringing God into our house; instead, he’s going crazy to bring us into a different house, one we don’t own or even know. All the work we’ve done to make things seem warm and welcoming, all the money we’ve spent on lights and ornaments and food, all the gifts, fall away, because there’s something else going on, something we cannot see. The dawning realization comes that our home is not our home.

We hang our Christmas art on the walls of home. The winter Grandma Moses print, a winter village full of activity, a red frame I did myself a while back, the nail and picture hanger positioned just right so it hangs evenly above our couch. There’s the painting we first saw on our honeymoon. A crippled man on the ground, his crutch cast aside as he prays in front of  a wooden cross planted in the snowy ground. In the shadows of the horizon, if you look, you can see the church emerging from the painted mists.

We drink warm spicy cider and look out at the snow falling magically, the twinkling icicles from gutters shining. Time to make our ice cream sauce to give away.

From the manger to the garden, it’s different for him. There’s no room for the newborn, no place for him to lay his head, no dwelling to call his home.

Jesus drinks from a different cup, so different that he asks not to drink it. But drink he does, and then stretches out his arms, open-palmed and rests them on the tree, braced to receive the nails.

And the wild treehouses of heaven, nestled along the singing river of life, places we’ve never seen, music we’ve never heard, doors with wreaths on them made from thorny dry branches woven round like crowns with bells and the handwritten parchment greeting: welcome.

Show and Tell by Sherry Kwan

I woke up to the sound of gusty wind constantly rubbing shoulders with the tree branches outside my bedroom windows and knew that this Saturday morning was destined to be nostalgic. Not quite fully awake, I surveyed the dancing branches through sleepy eyes. The wind roared, pushed and shook the branches with unseen hands. Leaves flew down with no goodbyes. Just rushing down and twirling around in the air.  
 
We know God speaks through nature, and his voice was rather loud and thick that morning. And I felt his presence as if I were wrapped by a warm blanket of heaven.
 
Our Midwest fall has been a display of colorful leaves. Red. Orange. Yellow. Even in November, some leaves are still stubbornly green as if holding onto summer’s romance. It is all good. The leaves coordinate among themselves. They subtly and joyfully display the harmony of creation.
 
How can I not think of God when driving or walking on the streets in the fall? The mornings, the afternoons and the evenings—overwhelmed by the beauty of the season, I hear nature eagerly telling the story of God, the Creator and the Sustainer of the season.
 
Yes, telling God’s story! I love the fact that God speaks, and that he tells us his heart desires, his thoughts and his works on the pages of Scripture, black and white. I think He does the same today through his careful and thoughtful creation. He tells me that he is the Lord when my whole being is nourished by multi-colored tree leaves. He tells me that he is the Lord when I think of that windy Saturday morning.
 
So, what do I do?  How can I show and tell my devotion and love for God?
 
I wrote this poem as I watched a fall sunset the other day as my response to God.

Jesus in the Sunset

Jesus, are you the red and orange sunset?
Your love made me cry.
 
How I am a traveler,
On the road,
I meet people,
I am passing by.
 
Would you stay with me for a moment or two?
You are my true delight!
I long to be with you,
I am desperate for your gentle presence,
Sit with me for a while, dear Lord,
In the lounge of my soul,
In this undying sunset vibe.
 
Lingering in my deep thoughts,
You are my resting lullaby.
I love you, Jesus!
Would you make this moment an eternal one?
With joy and satisfaction,
You alone are my Savior, Divine.
 
May I honor you like this fall-season sunset?
Quietly serving behind colorful leaves-
Like in the symphony of Nature,
singing your praises in silence,
Before darker brushes come to paint the night sky. 
 
Oh, Jesus,
I see you in this sunset.

 
The leaves are now almost gone. Winter smiles. She puts on her thicker jacket, excited to show up. And for me as fall gives way to winter, I shall look for signs of God as he continues to speak to me. All I see and hear demand my response to my loving God.
 
The heavens declare the glory of God; The skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; Night after night they reveal knowledge. Psalms 19: 1-2
 
Amen.

Yes and No by Karis Rigby

When I look back on my life, I often think that’s not how I would have written my story. First, I’m not sure I would have had the imagination to create some of the flourishes of the story I’ve experienced. Second, I certainly would not have written the lows as low as they have gone, which conversely, allowed the highs to be higher in my life as well.

As I write this, I am in Italy, where Stephen and I were seven years ago on holiday, waiting for test results to find out if we would be able to have our own children. Nine years ago, we had our first miscarriage, followed by two more within nine months and in total I would have six in our journey to date. Somewhere in those first nine months we realized this wasn’t a detour on the life trajectory we expected, but a totally new direction. Not just in parenthood, but in who we are and what we do today. Suffering often presents that choice. We have a chance to say yes or no to what is being written in our story and often that impacts how the story unfolds. Let’s be honest, it rarely feels as simple as that.

When I think of saying yes to what God has written, my mind easily goes to the momentous and exciting things we have said yes to: Stephen saying “yes” to football ministry in Kenya and me saying yes to a post-college internship in Kenya, us saying “yes” to a group hike on Mt Kenya that laid a foundation of friendship, me saying “yes” to Stephen in April 2010, leading to the “I do” yes in 2011! And a yes to continuing in life in ministry in Kenya.

But that’s only half of it, right? There are nos for every yes -Stephen said no to stateside soccer when he chose Kenya. We had to say no to living close to family as we follow God’s call in our lives in Kenya. And then sometimes God says no to what we thought should be a yes. Betrayal from a friend or trusted colleague, illness that persists or tragedy that results in death, or for us, no for a while to starting a family.

What do we do when God says no? Well, I will tell you what I did, I said NO! right back. After five miscarriages God had gone beyond what I felt I could bear, and I realised I had a line in the sand that I felt he was crossing. I didn’t sign up for this - to carry little babies but never meet any of them. If that was God’s will, I just couldn’t authentically pray “Your will be done.”

Truth be told, I probably prayed, “Your will be done, as long as it’s in alignment with mine or a significant upgrade.” As I look back I see how, in so many ways, my heart was screaming “no!” But, by the goodness of God, I see one important yes I said in that time - and that was to God. I turned to him with all my nos and he said “Yes. Come to me.” When I told him I couldn’t pray the most basic prayer, he said, “I know. Just bring that to me.” I found my feet resting again on the firm foundation of the reality of Christ’s love that has nothing to do with my capability and everything to do with his consistency.

The more I tether myself to his steadfastness, the more I can weather the hard nos and yeses better. I am neither immune to pain nor above disappointment, but I cling to what I know to be true. God is not surprised, he is at work, he is gracious and kind and he sees me. He isn’t scheming or messing around with his children. He allows trials and tests and disciplines those he loves -exposing what otherwise might remain under the surface and undealt with.

When I told God about my line in the sand, he was neither surprised nor angry. I heard him say, “I know. Just come to me with it.” “It” was my inability to change my own heart and “it” was being honest that I wanted children of my own and didn’t know how to not want that. “It” was that I had no problem believing that God is sovereign -which was why it was so complicated and personal, he had made me to long to be a mother and was withholding it from me. I couldn’t feign peace about it, and Jesus told me I didn’t have to - I just needed to come to him with the mess that was my heart and hurt, and short-sighted vision for my life. So, I came as I was, knowing that in his timing he would do the necessary work to get me to where I needed to be.

So many things were shaken up for us in that season, Pandora's box opened and the list of our questions grew. And when we were given the gift of Abigail, our firstborn, questions remained but a shift in my heart had forever taken place. We live in a more raw space than we used to, keenly aware of other people’s suffering, realising that it isn’t an inconvenience or hurdle to get over as soon as possible, but often a trajectory changing space that brings not only new growth but also an entirely new dimension. As others did for us, we step in to walk alongside others, in prayer, in hope and in friendship when the blows come.

A sixth miscarriage and the loss of our teammate’s two-day old baby in the last 10 months have brought some of these themes to the surface. In a renewed sorrow we had hoped we had left behind and in an unbelievably painful road with our friends. And yet, there was a difference, as we observed in our hearts and lives the fruit borne from when this first began nine years ago. We have had a glimpse of what the Lord has been doing, and how he has changed us, permanently. And with bittersweetness, wonder and awe, we could thank God for what he allowed in our lives, even if a part of us would change it in a minute. We are stuck between those spaces, marveling at what he has done and grieving what is lost and find that God is quite comfortable to leave us right there.

Saying yes to God has taken us to places we never dreamed of, becoming people we would not have outright chosen. As Stephen once said, “Karis you are a sadder version of yourself” and I knew it was a compliment! Turning to God has allowed me to slowly, surely say yes to the story he has woven for me, and as I do, I get to admire his tenderness. When he exposed the line in the sand of my heart, he wanted to grow me in that space, even when he knew he was going to say yes to that deep heart longing. It doesn’t always work out like that, or in the timing or way we relate to. But to our deepest spaces and longing to be known and perfectly loved, he does say yes to us. And invites us into relationship with him--weaving a story beyond what we would believe.

A Pastor Prays for His People by Wendell C. Hawley

Eternal God, everlasting Father,
Great and marvelous are your works.
When we really contemplate you as Creator and sustainer of all things,
we are overwhelmed by your greatness.
The flowers of the field are of greater beauty than Solomon in all his glory.
The sparrow is the recipient of your provision,
the object of your watch and care.
Nations and rulers are in place at your will and by your decree.
Events totally beyond our control
are subject to your purpose and determined will.
And in between sparrows and nations,
you extend your providential care to your children.
You, O God, asked Abraham, “Is there anything too hard for the Lord?”
We need to have such truth reinforced in our thinking—
for the enemy of our souls besieges us with doubts
about your involvement in our lives.
We are overwhelmed with contrary circumstances,
and we are sometimes almost drowning in despair.
We confess that we have almost made security and money our idols,
thinking that investments and governments would see us through.
Now we need to realize there is absolutely no security except in you.
You, Father God, are our secure provision.
We need to pray and praise like Mary,
The Lord took notice of his servant and has done great things for me.
May this be our testimony this day.
We confess our sins, plead forgiveness, and trust you for daily bread.
Thank you, Father, for a cleansed heart and a renewed spirit.
Thank you for meeting every need.
Amen

Morning Drive by Wil Triggs

Lorraine was telling me this week that she took a quiz to see how we were doing with our carbon footprint. We came out with a remarkably low carbon footprint considering we hardly think about that kind of thing.

When we drive to work together, it’s not a statement on global warming. It’s a statement about our employment: We work at the same place, more or less the same hours. Plus, I’m cheap. One used car means no car payments and low insurance rates.

On the way to work each morning, we read theFace to Facedevotional by Ken Boa and pray with each other. Sometimes when we are driving and praying, we see evidence of God’s amazing handiwork. It’s often in the sky—the sun, the clouds, God rays showering down. Sometimes it’s the brilliant yellows, golds and reds shimmering in the trees. Look quick before they’re gone.

Not infrequently I have to ask her, “What was that Scripture you just read?” Sometimes I’m thinking about the day ahead or the slow traffic, or I’m anticipating an appointment or a task before me. Will the color copier work? Will the person I’m scheduled to meet with and share from the heart show up for real? Thinking about the day easily gets in the way of thinking about God.

Seeing the wonder of natural revelation, seeing God answering a prayer in my devotional life, I do my share of looking. But much of life involves that which is not seen. Considering all that God is doing every moment of every day, he is remarkably low key.

The man who was healed had no idea who it was, for Jesus had slipped away into the crowd that was there. John 5:13b

I know there are theological reasons why Jesus slipped away unnoticed after the miracle, but it seems to me that God goes unnoticed. He slips away into and out of my crowded day or my drive to work. At the same time, Jesus came to make himself known, not to hide.

But how many times every day does God do something miraculous and amazing, or small and intimate in his care for his creation, yet we don’t realize it?

I like to search out Christian perspectives in secular media sources. Recently I came across an article Atlantic Monthly published by C.S. Lewis (in 1959) called “The Efficacy of Prayer.” In it, Lewis says, “Prayer in the sense of petition, asking for things, is a small part of it; confession and penitence are its threshold, adoration its sanctuary, the presence and vision and enjoyment of God its bread and wine. In it God shows himself to us. That he answers prayers is a corollary — not necessarily the most important one — from that revelation. What He does is learned from what He is.”

How much do we miss when we focus on petitions. I think it's not God who hides, but me. All the needs and requests, like people crowding around Jesus to the point where the crowd overtakes him and they're all we can see. Maybe we couldn’t bear much of that knowledge of God. But we could do better. I can do better. I wonder if we petition in our prayers so much because we don’t slow down and consider who it is we’re talking to when we pray. I think of my brothers and sisters in Nigeria and Indonesia and Singapore and Ukraine and Russia and Turkey—Christ with them all in their situations, the same as me as we drive down Main Street toward Seminary Avenue.

Maybe we should cultivate a greater awareness of God at work in day-to-day life and even and especially in our prayers. Be on the lookout, I sometimes remind myself. If you look for God, you’ll find him. He may be humble, but he’s not hiding.

There is a sense of wonder when we dare to see God at work today. He just shows himself. Someone does something that only God could know is just right. When I am surprised, which happens most every time, I suddenly realize he’s done something, “What was that Scripture you just read?” Scripture I've read many times suddenly becomes clear in a new way. A stranger does something unexpected or things happen in a way that just seems obviously engineered and I can almost hear him laugh. It’s a gentle laugh, loving and self-assuring toward me—the sometimes wayward one who wants to know what’s next but enjoys being surprised by something different and better than I could imagine on my own.

The Father, maker of so much that dazzles and even more that seems ordinary at the same time. The Son, who is our advocate always and especially when we don’t deserve it, which is always. The Spirit, so close, so caring, delighting with presence through people or silence or Scripture, the one who laughs..

Remarkably, this relational Father/Son/Spirit, invites us in and often unwittingly uses us as agents of God’s work, carriers of grace, messengers of hope. Wow.

So how will your Saturday be today?

Best Route Home by Lorraine Triggs

I have always loved maps—reading them, folding them, tracing routes on them and imagining the places I’d go. I especially loved the idea of U.S. states being pink or orange or green or yellow or light blue (much more creative than the current red state-blue state).

This early love might help explain why I have such a rocky relationship with Siri. Actually, my relationship with Siri is non-existent. When I try talking to her, I speak slowly and clearly, careful to annunciate every syllable. Usually nothing happens or it apologizes or misunderstands and wants to take me to a some other state. That is why we rely on my husband’s mobile phone and the cheery Aussie male-voiced Siri to tell us to turn left in 400, 300, 100 feet. Unfortunately, the cheery Aussie has gone silent of late, and we are left to rely on navigation apps and their maps limited to the size of a phone screen.

Even limited maps have their advantages, especially with their warnings of roadwork and heavy traffic for X number of miles. On a recent trip back home from Michigan as we crossed into Illinois, our navigation app insisted that the shortest route to Winfield was into Chicago and back out again on the Eisenhower. Never mind that when we swiped ahead we saw a solid red line the length of the Eisenhower indicating heavy traffic forever, or at least from the Loop nearly to the Hillside Strangler. The Bears game was just getting out.

What if the shortest route was into the city, through the heavy traffic and then home? We’ll never know. We chose another route home, where the traffic moved, and the road construction was on hold for the weekend. Shortest by miles is not always shortest by time or peace of mind.

I like my life the way I like my road trips—clear sailing from point A to point B. If not clear sailing, then some advance warning would be nice. Moderate trials for the next month; expect some delays. Heavy burdens ahead. Suggest finding a detour, and fast. Just as the limited maps on mobile devices only provide warnings for what’s directly ahead, my limited view of life prevents me from seeing further up and further in. I develop a hunker-down-I-can-get-through-this mentality and focus on the next stretch of obstacle free life. That's the goal--as few obstacles as possible.

What if the best route home is straight through the trials and burdens and crosses?

Moses seemed to think it was. In Deuteronomy, God’s people were done wandering in the wilderness (see what happens with no navigation app?) and Moses says to them: “The Lord your God who goes before you will himself fight for you, just as he did for you in Egypt before your eyes, and in the wilderness, where you have seen how the Lord your God carried you, as a man carries his son, all the way that you went until you came to this place. Yet in spite of this word you did not believe the Lord your God, who went before you in the way to seek you out a place to pitch your tents, in fire by night and in the cloud by day, to show you by what way you should go.” (vv.30-33)

It was in the wilderness that God navigated his people all the way to the land he had promised, even when their limited view of life made Egypt seem like an ideal place to live. Our steadfast loyal loving God knows that the best route home is straight through the One “who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God” (Hebrews 12:2).

Forget Egypt No map or app will guide me where I need to go.

As far as navigation apps or multi-colored maps go, I am counting on Jesus. Author, finisher, shepherd, Savior. After all he has brought us safe thus far and his grace will lead us home.

Ecclesiastes Is Right by Jim Crispin

My mom is 88 years old. Her beloved husband died 35 years ago. It's a long time to be a widow. Before advanced Alzheimer's disease took its toll, Mom was bright, successful in life, a believing Christian, beloved by family and by friends from her church, and a pack rat. My brother lives out-of-state, so addressing Mom's clutter (and other matters) fell to me.

I dislike clutter, yet over time my view of Mom's clutter softened. Many items in Mom's house were worn or obsolete, but Mom didn't see it that way, perhaps partly because she was a child of the Great Depression. Much of the rest was paper in some form, ranging in size from tiny notes-to-self to a 1961 Encyclopedia Britannica. Eventually all of it lost practical value. For Mom those items were reminders of things we all value—family, a meaningful event, a purposeful involvement in life, a success, a humorous or interesting incident. A few items represented her heartfelt dreams.

Life would have seemed stark to Mom if I had removed every bit of clutter, even as the excess of clutter gave rise to problems. I suggested, pleaded, appealed to reason, emotionally manipulated—anything to get stuff to the alley. Sometimes I partly succeeded, only for Mom to replenish purged clutter with new clutter.

In early 2018, Mom's faster-than-expected move to assisted living and prompt home sale required lots of fast work by me, which I accomplished in part by two all-nighters and morale-boosting burritos from a great Mexican hole-in-the-wall in Cicero. I wore out the pavement carrying Mom's stuff to the alley.

Very recently Mom moved to memory care, which required another downsizing. Not counting her bed and several pieces of furniture, I suppose that Mom's belongings now take up less than one percent of the cubic space they did five years ago. Material things are gone. Involvements of the past are gone. Most of Mom's mind is gone, none of these to return. "What do people gain from all their labors at which they toil under the sun?" (Ecclesiastes 1:3, NIV)

Today other people live in Mom's house. Scavengers took away far more than I'd expected, and I trust that at least some recycle bin contents were indeed usefully recycled. "What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun." (Ecclesiastes 1:9, NIV)

Prompted by her own experience, in the early 1990s Mom took classes at Northern Baptist Seminary with a goal of becoming a hospital chaplain. Courses included church history, spiritual formation, and deep dives into several Old and New Testament books. Mom being Mom, her grades were excellent, and she got as far as interning. Today it is as if none of that happened. "Then I applied myself to the understanding of wisdom, and also of madness and folly, but I learned that this, too, is a chasing after the wind." (Ecclesiastes 1:17, NIV)

Believe me, I relate to this verse: "A time to search ... and a time to throw away." (Ecclesiastes 3:6, NIV)

Many of you are acquainted with Alzheimer's, which is both dreadful and unpredictable. "Moreover, no one knows when their hour will come: As fish are caught in a cruel net, or birds are taken in a snare, so people are trapped by evil times that fall unexpectedly upon them." (Ecclesiastes 9:12, NIV)

As a young adult and young Christian, I thought that Ecclesiastes was a downer. Today I see it as no-nonsense, matter of fact. I had overlooked its encouragement: "I know that everything God does will endure forever; nothing can be added to it and nothing taken from it." (Ecclesiastes 3:14, NIV). In my view, Ecclesiastes is not without humor: "Do not pay attention to every word people say, or you may hear your servant cursing you." (Ecclesiastes 7:21, NIV)

Parts of Ecclesiastes puzzle me, but that doesn't throw me. Our pastors are glad to take a swing at the hard parts, and there are commentaries. Should the Lord tarry, one day I'll be gone, and other people will wonder about Ecclesiastes. There is nothing new under the sun.

God Talk by Wil Triggs

Every fall for many years, I have been reading the story of Kury to the incoming Kindergarten class. One chapter a week. We will probably finish around around Thanksgiving. The story starts where Kury’s dad dares to plant his yams with no prayers to the tribal gods. Instead he plants them in the name of Jesus.

Two women missionaries have come to the village to translate the Bible and tell the people about Jesus. Before the story starts, Kury’s Dad already believes, but Kury is not so sure.

Right now I’m at the part of the story where Kury gets a snake bite and he is sure that he’s going to die. He’s losing the feeling in his legs. The missionary ladies come and call for medical help to come by helicopter. Kury doesn’t know what a helicopter is. People are praying. Villagers come to look at him and say that it’s because of his father not planting his yams in the traditions. There is a storm. The sky needs to clear so the helicopter can reach them. Kury falls asleep, not knowing if he will ever wake up, inexplicably glad that his father has planted the yams in the new way. That’s the end of the chapter.

Spoiler alert: Kury doesn’t die, but don’t tell the Kindergarteners; we won’t get to that part of the story until October 2.

This part of the story makes me think back to the boy at our first summer camp in the Kaluga region of Russia. As our team was preparing to leave, the leaders called me and Jimmy into a room where a boy was lying on a bed, sick. They thought his sickness might be related to his aunt, who was a witch. He had never been around Christians. She was likely not happy about this. But it could also just have been a cold or fever or both. Either way, there was no doctor or nurse at the camp or in the churches behind the camp.

So we laid hands on the boy and prayed. We prayed not just for his illness, but for his soul. Then I had to go. I did hear a week or so later that the boy had recovered. In subsequent years, I have heard about several of the other children and camp staff through the years, but I never knew what happened to this particular child. Enough years have passed that this boy is a man now. He could be fighting in the war for all I know, on one side or the other. Or he could be a pastor.

The Kindergarteners will find out what happens to Kury in just a few days. I won’t find out what happened to that Russian boy probably until I get to heaven. But though I do not know, that does not mean that I should stop praying for him, because the One I am praying to knows and cares a lot more than I do.

In the missionary story I read every year, Kury and his family have funny names for Christian things. They call the Bible “God’s Carving.” They call prayer “God Talk," and I like that. It changes the point of view of prayer from me to God and who he is and what he has done and will do on earth as it is in heaven.

So now it is time for God Talk.

Father, maker, creator, orchestrator of all, you make. You know. You breathe; I breathe.
Son, shepherd, I sin; you die. I’m dirty; you wash. I stray; you find. You lift up lambs out of the briars and rocky crags they’ve stumbled upon. You rescue.
Spirit, flickering warming flame, you build the home in which I live. You laugh and love. No matter how far down the path I go, you are ahead of me and behind me.
Everywhere is not too far, always is not too soon, new is now. Too true to be true, yet truth unchanging and forever lives in you, is you, and in you I marvel and live this morning, this Saturday, this always.