On this day 2,000 years ago he rested again in the sleep of death—yes, once again, after a work of creation. Just not the one anyone was expecting.

After the pattern of Sabbath is marked out in Genesis 2, a second account of the creation of the world begins:

I’ve spent a great deal of time in the Garden of Eden over the last six weeks: the garden where God began his kingdom project, where he made sacred space to dwell, where he placed his first self-likeness to represent him and co-rule with him. It was a place of abundance, blessing, and gift; a place of rest, riches, and promise. Even the perfection within the garden’s borders was meant to spread beyond, and we are tantalized with the descriptions of Havilah, Kush, and Ashur, the mysterious lands where life-giving rivers meander and wind. The Kingdom was always intended to expand.

Daily we are reminded how far the image-bearers fell short of their holy vocation. There are sicknesses, deaths, homeless encampments, abused children, wars, autocrats, billionaires, slave laborers, and people who are starving. Instead of growing outward in glorious partnership between God and human as they explored and tamed and cultivated the wild lands of gold and gemstone, the borders of the garden named “Delight” (‘Eden) and the gate leading to the Tree of Life were closed by cherub and flaming sword. The human, having willfully broken communion with the Creator, was not to be allowed back in—banished, instead, to a wilderness now poisoned with death because of his sin.

In Holy Week we are drawn back into garden spaces: First, to the garden named “Olive Press” (Gethesemane) where the Messiah was wrung out in prayer, crushed under the anticipation of his fate, and betrayed. And then, after Jesus drank the cup of death, to an unnamed garden mentioned only by St. John:

Jesus was crucified—hung on a tree of death, to put it plainly—in a garden.

And in a garden like the place Adam was made the first (doomed) image of God, Jesus—the true and perfect Image, the Son of Man—was laid to Sabbath rest, barricaded by stone and guard, and for an instant the cosmic enemy rejoiced that his Genesis 3 plan to overthrow Creation had succeeded.

Adam, and any hope left for Adam’s heirs to return to the Garden of Eden, was destroyed.

Until.

If Genesis 1-3 is the beginning of Creation, John 20 is the beginning of New Creation. We are not in Eden anymore; it is no longer Sabbath, but rather the “first day of the week” in another kind of garden. Adam is long dead, but the New Adam is alive. The stone is rolled away! The flaming sword that rendered impassable the path back to God’s presence has been utterly removed by the Son of Man, the only Image worthy of walking straight through it. He who hung accursed on the tree of death has become the fruit of the Tree of Life.

And the first person to meet him in New Creation history is Mary of Magdala—who, initially, supposes him to be the gardener.

I love that detail. She’s not wrong. Mary of Magdala may not realize it until she hears him say her name, but she is the new Eve in the new Eden meeting the original Gardener of the original Eden and the New Adam of the New Creation at the same time. She is our very first glimpse of the Church, the Bride.

And she is the first to expand the borders of this new Eden out into the wilds beyond.

If we remember anything this Resurrection Day, let it be that our Bridegroom is alive, and we live in New Creation now. Our life’s work is to push the borders of his Kingdom outward, not by winning battles in the old way—fighting, arguing, going to war, trying to out-gun or out-snark those we see as “God’s enemies”—but by participating in the Grand Reversal of Christ’s example.

He came on a donkey, not a war horse. There is no place for violence in this kingdom.

He was lifted up on a cross, not a throne. There is no place for pride in this kingdom.

He was crowned with thorns, not gold and jewels. There is no place for greed in this kingdom.

He entrusted the Gospel first to a woman. There is no place for sexism in this kingdom.

He expands his borders by cultivating gardens and hosting banquets. There is no place for war in this kingdom.

Tomorrow, we awaken as members of a new family and citizens of a new nation. We awaken as children who share a Father with Jesus, as royal priests in a new kind of temple, bearing God’s image and God’s sacred presence within ourselves. We awaken on the first day of the week to a world entirely remade.

Thanks be to God!

“Walk of Mary Across the Mountains” by Maximilian Albert Josef Liebenwein (1869–1926)

I’m sure we’ve all seen any number of artistic interpretations of the journey of the Holy Family to Bethlehem for the census and the birth of Christ. In most of them, Mary’s fragility as a very-pregnant mother seems to be an important theme: She is typically perched on the couple’s donkey while Joseph tirelessly walks alongside, or is at least leaning heavily on Joseph’s support, if she tries to walk herself. This painting, titled “Walk of Mary Across the Mountains,” struck me as so opposite to those renderings that I first thought – until I noticed Joseph and the burro in the shadows of the upper right-hand corner – that it must be depicting Mary’s visit to Elizabeth, not her trek toward meeting God in tiny-human-baby form.

Perhaps it strikes me especially because I’ve been in this “very-pregnant” state twice in the last six years. I know the immense (perhaps near-impossible) ask that a 70-mile journey on foot would make on an unstable pelvis, split abdominal muscles, and half-capacity lungs. I understand why so many paintings show her riding the donkey – which, granted, wouldn’t have been particularly comfortable, either. Yet in this piece, Maximilian Leibenwein has captured something different in Mary that I also recognize: That state of resigned determination that takes a woman from her already-great discomfort through a period of excruciating travail and into the extraordinary euphoria on the other side.

Toward the end of each of my pregnancies, I didn’t know what scared me more: that I might be pregnant for another three weeks, or that I might not be pregnant for another three weeks. Each option was defined by a different kind of uncertainty and discomfort, but either way, I could not escape the fact that my fate was to endure the uniquely life-upending transition of a birth, sooner or later.

Mary’s baby is coming. The pain is inevitable; the process is inevitable; the birth is inevitable. He is coming. Her body will do the work, and she must only be ready to meet him.

But unique to Mary’s circumstance is that it’s not merely her firstborn son coming; it is her Lord. The Messiah is coming. After millennia of relentlessly inviting his people into his space, God Incarnate invaded ours, bringing heaven to earth and commencing the rebirth of humanity through the birth of Jesus.

Ready or not, the King is coming.

We remember his royal-and-lowly approach in Advent, in part, to remember that the King still approaches us; the King, though come, is also here, and is coming again. He has already-and-not-yet come, already-and-not-yet rescued us, already-and-not-yet glorified us.

How do we approach him? How can we be ready to meet him? Perhaps with a doggedness like Mary’s, as she made the journey toward the “greatly multiplied” pain promised her in Genesis 3:16 for the sake of meeting the snake-crusher of Genesis 3:15. She was at once humble and bold: humble, in her wholehearted submission to God’s use (Luke 1:38); and bold, in her unflinching determination to praise the Lord for the goodness and certainty of his plan for her life, and for her whole people besides (Luke 1:46-55).

We need not have birthed children from our bodies to know what it is to make an arduous trek through certain suffering for the sake of immeasurable joy. This is the story of every saint, every martyr, every follower of Christ – the story of my life and yours. Pain in life, and death at life’s end, are inevitable. But on the other side is Jesus. And with us every moment – though like Mary in Leibenwein’s depiction, we cannot yet see him – is Jesus.

Every day is another step toward the God who has stepped toward us. Every day, a step closer to his presence, a moment nearer to the full realization of his glory. We walk humbly, yet boldly: obeying and praising, walking and singing, enduring and rejoicing. We walk like Mary, across treacherous mountains and valleys of shadow, until at last we see our Lord face-to-face.

The Advent of the Christ was just a purple candle on a Sunday morning for the first 30 years of my life, and I’m still learning to pause and hold the tension of joy-with-penitence of this “little Lent” before rushing straight into tinsel and carols and holly-jolly cheer the day after Thanksgiving. What is joy with penitence? What does it mean to fast in preparation for a feast, or to sorrowfully reflect while at the same time growing in anticipation for the arrival of the King?

The calendar moves us toward Jesus, toward Christmas. Jesus moves toward us in the miracle of the Incarnation. Heaven and earth are set on a collision-course that will blow up the trajectory of history and should likewise alter the course of our lives. The King is coming, and we are ill-prepared, sin-filled, unworthy to welcome him—sorrow. The King is coming, and He is our loving Father and our salvation—joy.

Advent is like the cool of the day in Eden, that time of the evening breeze when God walked in the garden (Genesis 3:8). His approach would have been pure joy, but for the failures of His imagers. Adam and Eve hide like guilty children waiting to be caught by their parent, unsure what the reaction will be, but expecting it to be bad. Instead of joy, sorrow. Within three pages the whole-goodness of God’s presence for humans has been corrupted by sin, and the whole-joy of His approach has been corrupted by fear.

“Where are you?” (Genesis 3:9b)

“I heard you in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked; so I hid.” (Genesis 3:10)

I was afraid because I was naked. I was ashamed of myself. I was not worthy to receive you.

We’ve all been there. We reflect for two minutes on the scandal of the Incarnation and we are there: naked, ashamed, unworthy, afraid. How can we approach this God? The instinct is to hide, to lie, to cover ourselves up.

But this glimpse of Advent in Genesis is a glimpse of the joy in our own little Lent, for the King does not laugh at His wayward children; He does not lose His temper; He does not destroy them or abuse them or beat them down. He holds His boundary—and at the same time He covers their shame.

The Lord God made garments of skin for Adam and his wife and clothed them. And the Lord God said, “The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil. He must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat, and live forever.” So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken.

Genesis 3:21-23

We pause in Advent deeply aware of our spiritual nakedness and deeply grateful for God’s generous provision. We can approach Him, unhiding, because He approached us not as a mighty warrior-king but naked and humble Himself, a suffering Servant offering us robes of righteousness. We have a place now in His temple court because He became the fruit of the tree of life by hanging, cursed, on a tree of death.

Of Him we take and eat, and live forever.

The garden is drifting to sleep.

Sheets of cold dew and coverlets of mist wrap around the still-green foliage. Patches of yellowing and mildew form like age spots on the leaves, reminders of a life-cycle coming to its end, and despite their weakening stems and the disappearing daylight the dahlias keep thrusting forth buds. It is a silent form of “rage against the dying of the light,” but a rage all the same—a refusal to go submissively to winter’s sleep.

First frost looms in the shadows like the Angel of Death. His cold touch will instantly and irrevocably turn the green of life to the black of mourning.

But even the Angel of Death can only kill the body. The soul—the nephesh, the life-conduit—is cradled safely in the hidden place, waiting for resurrection. The roots and seeds lay at peace in the earth, waiting for spring.

We might think of death-and-resurrection as a pattern started by Jesus, but it has been with us since God first divided light from darkness and set the times and seasons into motion. Day gives way to night and then dawns again. A full moon wanes until it disappears in shadow, and then waxes again. Growing-time becomes harvest-time becomes dormant-time before everything wakes up to grow anew.

The ceaseless liturgy of the created order mirrors the life, death, and life-again cycle—a cycle that first-fruits in Jesus, yes, but is sketched and hinted from Genesis 2, when the First Adam falls into a “deep sleep” to be awakened into a new Adam-and-Eve humanity, and is brought to fullness in Revelation 21 when the Last Eve—the Church, including all the saints and martyrs who have died from her inception—descends from heaven as the glorified Bride, the New Jerusalem.

In that day, death will be such a forgotten enemy from our long-ago past that we’ll no longer need reminders in the form of daily, monthly, or yearly “little deaths.” There will be no night there, no daily sleep of unconsciousness to remind us that our bodies will soon enough sleep with our fathers. We will have no need of sun or moon, for God’s light will shine perpetually, everlasting as our lives. The tree of life will yield its fruit every month; there is no winter, no season of dormancy, no Angel of Death to bring frost, only a better-than-Eden flourishing that is both endlessly productive and endlessly restful, somehow.

This is the hope I find in the garden drifting to sleep: not that I relish in small deaths, not that I won’t profoundly miss my flowers, but that for now it’s an irrefutable reminder that God is trustworthy and faithful. As I have no doubt that the sun will rise after tonight’s small death of night, or that the spring will come after this year’s small death of winter, or that the plants destroyed by frost will grow again next spring, I need have no doubt that my own mortal body is safe in the hands of the One who wove death-and-resurrection into every thread of Creation.

Paul wrote that “The last enemy to be destroyed is death” (1 Corinthians 15:26), but the destruction of death is one of the very first things written into the ordering of the universe. It has not yet come, but it is coming. From even before death was a threat to the Garden-dwellers its destiny was defeat.

There is a beautiful service on All Souls’ Day at my church in which we commend those who have died into the hands of God. We take down a list so we can commend each by name. I love this practice of opening our hearts to give our departed loved ones into the divine care of God, trusting that He—the first Gardener—knows how to tend them safely through the winter. Following the pattern of all Creation since before time began, spring will come again, and soon—when the last enemy is destroyed under Christ’s feet—we’ll get to worship Him together, in everlasting summer.

Alleluia!

I asked Sam the other day who the “child” was who was rolling hose at the fire station. Apparently that child was 23 and has already gone through medic school—older than I was when Sam got hired. Did I look that young, once?

I spend a fair amount of my time with people older than myself, but none of them has mentioned the weirdness of being a business owner in a networking group run by fellow 1990s-born peers, of taking your kids to a pediatrician younger than yourself, of realizing your husband is now the senior person on his shift when just the other day you were the newlyweds and newly-hireds meeting the veteran lieutenant for the first time.

And then Charlie Kirk was murdered.

Thirty-one years old.

Parent of two.

This is life now in the middle place, not young, not yet old: watching faces fade out of family photographs one by one, watching your baby morph into a toddler and then into a kid, every day feeling like you’re meeting someone new and losing someone old. Childish romanticization of young death gives way to a desperate prayer that God will have mercy on your family for another day, that the inevitable shattering loss will stay its hand for just one more hour of the present tranquility.

Time pulls like a riptide, and perhaps the lesson is that the harder you resist, the more likely you drown. Breathe. Don’t try to swim to shore. The waves will always win.

He was 31. So am I.

He was a parent of two. So am I.

He was mortal, fragile, always just one breath away from God taking His breath back. So am I.

At 31, a Levite man might have been a priest for a year. At 31, Jesus was one-third of the way through His ministry and two years away from death. At 31, my husband had already been bereaved of his mother; at 31, my mom became pregnant with me; at 31, my cousin Megan had just one year left to live.

In this state we live and endure, somewhere between certain death and eternal life, between paralyzed fear and a frenzied sprint, not young anymore but not quite old. Like wildflowers doggedly fighting for survival, we stay productive and pretty and try to forget that it’s all because we know winter is coming and we are going to die.

We don’t know when. But we can sense the angle of the sun is changing.

As a beautiful olive tree in the field.

Serendipitously, Trader Joe’s was selling little potted olive trees today. I bought one. Today is the anniversary of the day my girls and I went to the little white Anglican church for the first time.

One year of being weekly washed in the water of the Word.

One year of dwelling in the body of Christ, and inviting Him to dwell in me, at the sacramental table.

One year running free, unencumbered by the burden of needing to know and be right about everything.

It’s been a year of asking questions (so many questions), learning, and consistently being humbled by the rigidity of my paradigm or the incompleteness of my understanding. A year of noticing how many things I have gotten exactly backward, and never thought twice about before. A year of discovering—as if for the first time—who God is.

Thus, Our Lady of the Olives graces my desk. A reminder that God humbled Himself to come to us fully human: the kind knit together cell by cell in a mother’s womb, the kind birthed through blood and travail, the kind that becomes an inconsolable newborn or a tantruming toddler or a strong-willed child. A reminder that the Father crucially partnered with Mary—and many women before her, all the way back to Eve—to enact redemption, and that for a time, she was His very tabernacle dwelling. Somehow a holy God did not think Himself too good for us, even though we so often think ourselves too good for Him.

A reminder, too, that the Creation project began with a temple garden, lush with life and color and goodness, like the flowers that frame the figures in the painting. That the Creator delights with me in my garden’s blossoms, my children’s antics, my home’s sanctuary. He tabernacles here with us.

I went looking for Him in so many places—across the country, overseas, at a certain type of church, inside a certain version of the Bible, in my own ideas and projects and “glorious purpose”—and though He never abandoned me in any of those things, I found Him here.

Little old here.

Common and nondescript, but simultaneously significant. Like a beautiful olive tree in the field.

Like a little white church on the corner.

She awakes
looking into a mirror.
Strength, goodness, and valor are there.
His first, and have become hers—
two halves of a split picture, the Imago Dei.

The One who breaks apart darkness and light,
water and ground,
God’s space and human’s space is now become
the One who knits together whole new beings from inside Himself.

And he who breaks apart the creatures by kind,
who himself is broken in two,
incomplete,
not good,
cannot be knit whole outside of her.

O God of peace, who has taught us that in returning and rest we shall be saved, in quietness and in confidence shall be our strength: By the might of your Spirit lift us, we pray, to your presence, where we may be still and know that you are God; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Often when I sit down to write here, my heart is not remotely quiet. There’s a lot of tension, disquiet, a sense of striving—for the right idea, the right words, the right way to explain myself. There have been times I’ve asked God if it’s time to be done, if after 15 years of writing on the Internet I have said as much as I need to say and the world has heard enough from me.

This morning in prayer, I asked again what the Spirit had to say to me. “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”

I hoped for something obvious, like “Stop writing,” or “Keep going.” Instead, He said, “Be still.”

As translated by the NASB in Psalm 46:10—cease striving. I’ve spent a lot of time mulling that phrase and the Hebrew words it comes from. I picture a child’s sleeping body, utterly limp, or the perfectly still surface of a pond—no tension, no motion, no bracing.

As spoken by Jesus to the turmoil of the storm—peace, be still. Or perhaps a booming command of “Silence!” would capture the nature of His words more accurately. “And the wind died down and it became perfectly calm” (Mark 4:39b)—no tension, no motion, no bracing.

Or, as put by Moses in the face of a battle against the Egyptians—you need only to be still. To stop talking, to say nothing, to let God fight instead.

And so I release my own bracing for the impact of writing the wrong thing. I release my tension around disappointing the people I value. I am quiet, restful, limp in the hands of God, waiting to receive the word He might give me and refusing to willfully dig it out on my own strength or my own clock. Waiting for Him to do battle on my behalf.

Words keep failing me, and maybe it’s because words must fail eventually. Maybe it’s because it’s not possible to capture God and His heart and His work in the space of a few paragraphs of cold letters on a page. This has to be lived, embodied, touched, felt, known, seen, shared—for the first time I’m realizing I cannot have this walk with Jesus alone. I cannot have it online. I cannot have it only in my head, as if my truest self were just my mind, divorced from my body and heart and gut.

The convenient thing about an intellectual faith, a faith built on righteousness by good doctrine and knowledge of the Bible, is that it’s fairly self-sufficient and immensely scalable.

The inconvenient thing is it bears almost no resemblance to Jesus’s vision of the kingdom of heaven.

One is a formula I can watch on YouTube from the comfort of my home. The other is a fully embodied experience of the life, death, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus that can’t be mass-produced, faked, bought, or sold.

And so of course words fail—words, which I love so much! Words which I have spent my life honing, crafting, and using to express my deepest thoughts and feelings as I learn and grow. But words can’t help but fall woefully short of the truest reality unless they, like Christ, become flesh.

Israel had many words. The Ten Commandments are called, literally, the “Ten Words”—and they had hundreds and hundreds more commands than that. They had a whole history of kings and prophets recorded in writing. And still, the Word had to become flesh.

The knowledge had to become life.

The truth had to become human.

What good have I done, if I write a dozen profound books about Jesus but fail to live and walk with Him in my real, offline life? He says “whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me”—and His examples are feeding the hungry and clothing the naked, not writing brilliant essays of what it’s like to feed the hungry or clothe the naked.

God didn’t tell me “Stop writing” but neither did He say “Keep going.” He said, “Be still.”

So in returning and rest, I follow Jesus, and I learn to bring my whole self—not just my head—into communion with Him. It is not scalable, nor even really shareable. But it’s all that matters.

Plain words in a plain paragraph form, like this, leave nowhere to hide. I tell you what I think and wait to be torn to shreds for it. I write prose for the same reason people write poetry, but without the poetic form to excuse my emotion as “art.” Mine will be dismissed as the emotions of a weak vessel, but if this were a song the emotions would be considered its life force.

The feelings are allowed in art.

No wonder art has lost its place in church.

There’s at least some small exodus from Evangelicalism, Inc., with its warehouse buildings and windowless sanctuaries, back into traditions that lean into rhyme, rhythm, color, and beauty along with the truth. To my surprise, I have joined it.

If you follow my life in a timeline of the churches I’ve been part of, you’ll find that I followed the light: from four different windowless warehouses with bare walls to migrating into the well-lit foyer to, finally, sitting down every week in a cozy former synagogue with tall windows down each side, sunlight pouring generously in. There are small reproduced paintings in between the window frames depicting various Biblical scenes, and colorful banners hang on the walls. The altar is draped in rich fabric according to the liturgical season. Candles flicker. It’s humble, and it’s beautiful.

The feelings are allowed in beauty.

Truth and beauty are two of my highest values, but they’ve always felt at odds with each other. In this culture, we use phrases like “the awful truth” or “the ugly truth”—the thing nobody wants to hear, but somebody has to be brave enough to say. Those who offend with the truth get recognition. For several years, I tried this tactic on for size in my own writing, and it worked; it got a lot of comments and shares and traffic. It felt like I was doing something that mattered.

But it was ugly. Marked by pride, flattery, ego, and conflict. Even if everything I wrote was true, very little of it was honest.

Honesty is where truth and beauty find overlap.

The feelings are allowed in honesty.

In the realm of Christianity I’ve spent the most time in, there is this unspoken idea that the only really-true truth is the one that has been stripped of every element of life. “Real” truth, Truth with a capital T, should sound like a mathematical fact or a scientific law: black and white and unarguable and entirely dismissive of complicating factors like God or relationship or humanity.

Any emotion or soul or spirit—even the Holy Spirit Himself—renders a truth-claim suspect.

It’s idiotic, really. We were made human, in the image of God, only to attempt to become robots in how we discern what is true. We’ve made a sort of idol out of certainty—out of being able to believe a “fact” simply because “God said so,” without regard for the creative evidence both within us and without us that screams our facts are at best incomplete. Our truth is not honest.

If we are honest, humans were created for beauty. Humans are wired for emotions. Humans thrive in relationship. If we’re honest, relationships and emotions are some of the messiest and grayest areas of life. You can’t slap a mathematical fact or a scientific law on any of it. It’s just too unpredictable.

To me, that’s why it’s beautiful.

It’s a glimpse of God at work—glorious, fierce, incomprehensible. It’s a reminder that I am not in control and I don’t get to tell Him who He is. It’s walking under the trees in a whipping wind while the sky roils with thunderheads, or lying in the grass with the sun on your face and the thin buzz of honeybees all around. It’s the familiar rhythm of spring rolling into summer or the phases of the moon, punctuated by the chaos of invisible solar storms or devastating natural disasters.

There is order and there is chaos. There is truth and there is beauty. There is body and there is emotion. There is what we know and a whole universe of what we don’t know at all.

Honesty—the space where truth and beauty overlap—is what I see at the heart of the exodus from warehouse to window-light. I, for one, am worn out by robotic certainty and “the ugly truth,” because I know that the honest truth, the truth that holds space for the divine as well as the human, is beautiful.

God is beautiful and the maker of beauty. God is true and the standard of truth. My job, as His image-bearer and witness, is honesty.

I probably say to myself at least once a day, “I can’t do this.” And I truly was not built for it. I’m extremely auditory-sensitive and my children are both very loud. Clara barely stops talking to take a breath from sunup to sundown, and Jane communicates each of her feelings in a different pitch of yell or shriek. My nervous system gets a workout every single day.

They don’t know it, but it’s through my two daughters that I have also found sanctuary for my soul—internal, quiet, rest.

How? Because they have shown me who God is.

All the years that I spent reading and studying the Scriptures before I had children were good and edifying, but all that propositional knowledge merely laid the foundation for finally experiencing what is true. In parenthood, I get the palest glimpse into the reality of God as a father who lavishes love on His children and a mother who gathers her chicks under her wings. The Gospel is no longer a one-dimensional story about how I can “get out of hell free”—it’s the good news of victory, that the Creator of heaven and earth has resoundingly defeated sin and death so that both realms can be united again as His kingdom and I can be part of it, because—what is this miracle?!—He wants me there.

I have met God the Rescuer, and He is good.

I have met God the Redeemer, and He is good.

I have met God the Nurturer, and He is good.

I have met the King, and to my amazement, He’s not a control freak. He’s not obsessed with punishment, retribution, or how my behavior reflects on Him. He is the Prince of Peace, gentle and lowly. He delights in me and the thoughts and reflections I share with Him the same way I delight in everything Clara and Jane are learning and doing each day.

Sometimes I think we get so lost in theology and terminology that we forget to look for God Himself, and hesitate to let Him be God when He colors outside our preconceived lines.

I understand it—the fear of being flippant with the truth, or defining who God is based on the narrow parameters of how we feel or what we experience. Those things can never give us a complete picture. But what can? Do we expect that any of us will find our picture of God to be perfectly accurate when we meet Him face to face, regardless of whether we know the “right” theology, soteriology, eschatology, or other -ology?

My hope for that day is that I’ll have more than a picture; I’ll have a relationship.

A picture might give me some facts so I can recognize Him when I see Him, but the relationship is what I can take deeper and deeper into eternity. The relationship is what transforms me into His likeness. The relationship is where everything I know to be true about Him actually becomes true in my life.

It wouldn’t do my children much good to be raised by a portrait of me. To know my philosophy on parenting or my stance on discipline or even a disembodied fact about how much I love them.

None of it matters unless they get to live in the reality of it, a living and breathing and dynamic two-way relationship.

The Bible depicts God’s connection with His children as that of a breastfeeding mother with her baby, and there are few relationships as real, experiential, and vital as the mother-baby dyad. Facts and depictions can’t feed, comfort, hold, warm, support, love, and sustain a life. The baby deprived of any of those experiences, let alone all, would fail to thrive.

Human experience doesn’t live on the pages of books or the lines of doctrine. And God doesn’t fit there, either.

I am reminded of the words of James that used to make me feel so uncomfortable:

But someone will say, “You have faith, and I have works.” Show me your faith without works, and I will show you faith from my works. You believe that God is one; you do well. The demons also believe—and they shudder.

James 2:18-19

Rather than contradicting salvation by grace, as my younger self often worried, these words underscore my point: Knowing a certain set of facts is not evidence of faith. I’d argue that most of the underworld knows a lot more information, and more accurately, about God than any human on earth. It doesn’t make them His disciples.

Facts and information don’t create disciples any more than they raise babies.

A friend of mine went through a multi-year health crisis which impacted her so much that she couldn’t do anything, including go to church or read her Bible or spend time with other believers. For several years she passed her days mostly alone in her room, with little more stimulation than the view of tree branches from her window.

But the Holy Spirit communed with her there.

Her story has led me to reflect on the substance of my own walk: I love the Scriptures deeply, but suppose all my Bibles and Bible study resources were suddenly no longer available to me?

In relationship with the Triune God, the Word-Made-Flesh would still dwell with me. God would still be Father to me. The Holy Spirit would still animate me.

All the -ologies in the world can’t compare with that.

“And the Father who sent me has given evidence about Me. You’ve never heard His voice; you’ve never seen His form. What’s more, you haven’t got His Word abiding in you, because you don’t believe in the one He sent.

“You study the Bible,” Jesus continued, “because you suppose that you’ll discover the life of God’s coming age in it. In fact, it’s the Bible which gives evidence about Me! But you won’t come to Me so that you can have life.”

John 5:37-40, The Kingdom New Testament

I’ve delighted in my dahlias these last few months, but to be honest, some of the plants have been a disappointment. They grew lush and leafy, but produced only one or two blooms all summer. In fact, one variety bloomed today for the very first time—and I had to check the tag on the stalk to even remember what I’d planted there. I had forgotten all about it since it blended in so completely with the foliage of the more prolific plants, overshadowed, losing out on the best sunlight to its neighbors.

I feel a bit like that dahlia.

I know that if I could just put out a flower, it would be beautiful—a gift from God to the world through my life. But somehow the conditions are never quite right, and camouflaging myself among the other greenery along the fringe is a lot easier than the amount of growing I’d need to do to reach my buds to the sun. Maybe it’s too late, anyway.

But do you know what happens when those lush leaves succumb to frost?

The invisible fruitfulness is revealed.

Underneath the soil, all summer long, even a flowerless plant (sometimes especially the flowerless plant) is busy replicating itself in the form of more tubers. These can be dug out, divided, stored carefully through the winter, and planted again in the spring—turning a single plant into anywhere from 5 to 20 more just like it. While my summer bouquets fill me with joy, garner lavish praise, and make all the work of growing and tending worthwhile, the real gold is only apparent to those who are willing to get down and mine it out.

It’s funny-looking gold—ugly brown roots, not unlike skinny sweet potatoes or a strange multi-legged sea creature. And it’s back-breaking labor—hours spent hunched over clumps of dirty tubers, looking for viable eyes and trying not to destroy any in the process of dividing them, mind going numb and hands cramping on the shears.

(Perhaps God feels the same when He’s trying to work with the fruit in my life. 🙃)

Suppose I never produce a “flower” with my life, yet still get the delight of growing in the presence of the Lord and abiding in His Temple? Suppose my purpose is to give life and love to my children—and suppose they get to bloom because of it? Perhaps my two daughters, whom I named “Bright and Beautiful” and “Flourishing in God’s Grace,” will get to flourish with bright, beautiful blossoms because I was faithful in the invisible things.

At any moment, a killing frost could turn all my discernible offerings into black slime. What’s left will be the work done in the secret place.

He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and my fortress; My God, in Him I will trust.”

Psalm 91:1-2 NKJV

On a clearer night, I would stay out longer in search of a sky striped with shooting stars or dancing with pillars of aurora—though it’s getting too late in the season for such an already-unlikely event. Still, God’s artistry is unbound by what is “likely.”

The heavens declare.

When I was a little girl roaming wide-open spaces under a cloudless wind-whipped sky, I looked often to the face of the mountain in the northwest corner of the horizon, thinking I might see the face of God there. That was the biggest object I had categories for, so in my mind, that was God’s domain, the closest visual I had to God Himself.

But have you noticed? In the Bible, God is not the mountain. God is on the mountain—in the cloud.

God is not an ancient face of rock, half-buried in glaciers, concrete and definable, conquerable by anyone with the will and stamina to try. And He’s not a momentary formation of cloud, shifting and changeable, enterable by anyone who can climb or fly high enough.

He is neither… and both.

Ancient, real, challenging, multifaceted, mysterious, pervasive, impossible to capture.

The heavens declare.

Heaven is declaring God’s glory;
    the sky is proclaiming his handiwork.
One day gushes the news to the next,
    and one night informs another what needs to be known.
Of course, there’s no speech, no words—
        their voices can’t be heard—
but their sound extends throughout the world;
        their words reach the ends of the earth.

Psalm 19:1-4 CEB

“Glory” is a strange word in Hebrew. Its source word, transliterated kabad, is a verb best defined as “to be heavy, weighty, burdensome.” Kabod is the noun version we translate “glory.”

The heavens declare God’s weightiness. His abundance. That He is not to be trifled with. Like the mountain, He is massive and immovable. Like the clouds in the expanse, He is mysterious and unpredictable. His own Creation reflects tiny pieces of who He is and what it means to enter into His presence. It is a heavy thing.

A heavy, wonderful thing.

And the Creation can’t help itself but invite us into the Creator’s throne room.

The Lord said, “Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.”

Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave.

Then a voice said to him, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”

1 Kings 19:11-13 NIV

I had another uncomfortable realization last night (while lying awake with insomnia for the second night in a row) that I’ve often used church as a way to quiet the constant fear in my subconscious that I’m not really, truly following Jesus. After all, even when there is little genuine substance to my everyday relationship with God, I can fall back on the tangible reality that I go to the place and do the thing to make me feel better.

This is Pharisaism at its finest, and it comes very naturally to me.

And Pharisaism is a form of idolatry.

One of my favorite stories in the Old Testament is when, while Moses is receiving the Law on the mountain, Aaron quiets the Israelites’ fear and unrest by helping them create a golden calf. He doesn’t say to them, “Here is a new god for you to worship, since the old one abandoned you!”—he says “This is your God, O Israel, who brought you up from the land of Egypt” (Exodus 32:4, emphasis added).

At the very moment when the God of Israel was meeting with Moses on a mountaintop cloaked in cloud, Aaron and the assembly reduced Him to the tangible, accessible, visible form of a calf made out of gold. Their small minds needed to be able to go to the place and do the thing—to see “proof” that they were still blessed and protected and led by God, even if it was proof they literally created out of their own ornaments of slavery.

They made for themselves an idol.

Now when Aaron saw [the golden calf], he built an altar before it; and Aaron made a proclamation and said, “Tomorrow shall be a feast to the Lord.” So the next day they rose early and offered burnt offerings, and brought peace offerings; and the people sat down to eat and to drink, and rose up to play.

Exodus 32:5-6

If the act of “going to church” is my tangible metric for whether I’m walking in step with God, have I not done the same?

God may be high above on the mountaintop, inviting me into the wonders of His presence and longing to teach me His wisdom, but I’m too busy bringing offerings to a false version of Him—created from the golden chains of legalism—to notice.

Or He may just feel distant and inaccessible right now, and this is a time to wait for Him to speak when He sees fit, and stop filling the silence with counterfeit worship to a counterfeit god.

I don’t mean church itself is bad or idolatrous, but I wonder if I’m the only one who’s guilty of shrinking the glory of relationship with the true God down to a measurable set of religious actions, or trying to contain His presence within the four walls of a three-dimensional building?

If we took those religious actions away and quit going to the building altogether, would there be anything left? If the answer is no, was there any relationship with God there to begin with, or was it all a carefully managed mirage?

Part of me has always felt a little guilty that my richest times of communion with God usually happen far away from church: on horseback rides, in my flower garden, wandering through open fields, at Twenty One Pilots concerts, in conversation with beloved friends or family over cocktails, in times of immense pain and grief, or watching while He shapes the minds and hearts of my two little girls in our most mundane daily activities.

But perhaps that’s exactly as it should be. Is He not in all of these things at least as much as He is in church? These are the real things that make up 98.9% of our lives, the things that go on between Sunday noon and the next Sunday at 10am. Going to the place and doing the thing once or twice a week is fine—and ideally it’s supportive of the goal—but going and doing are hardly the same as being and dwelling. Following the rules is not the same as living out a reborn heart. Feasting before a golden calf doesn’t mean you are worshiping the One True God.

It was a gift that I didn’t know I would need to carry me into this hard day.

My horse, Drem, passed away overnight, at home on my parents’ farm. My mom called to tell me this morning. Dad buried her on the hill that rises beyond the creekbed that runs beside her corral, in view of Mt. Adams.

I call her mine, but she was really shared between me and my sister, Hannah. I think of her as my lifelong confidant and friend, but she didn’t enter my life until I was 12 and I only saw her sporadically after I got married at 20. Mom, Dad, Hannah, and Amy all spent more time with her in the last ten years than I did. Even so, the bond between a horse and her girl is real, and without her sweet spirit on this side of it anymore, the veil between heaven and earth seems a lot thicker today.

It’s a literary cliche at this point, but with good reason: A love for horses has been tattooed on my inner being since before I had the words to express it. I distinctly remember the ache in my chest every time I saw someone else riding a horse, every time I watched Black Beauty, every time we passed horses grazing in a field on the way to church on Sunday mornings—starting at three or four years old, if I had to guess. I remember the hours Hannah and I would spend poring over horse books, magazines, and Breyer model horse catalogs. We eventually outlet our obsession by writing and illustrating our own horse stories (shout out to my beloved fictional racehorse, Robin Hood).

Drem was my dream come true. She came to us as a seven-year-old greenbroke quarter horse mare named “Lady,” and we renamed her “Dreamer” because she had the same coloring as Soñador from the movie, Dreamer. But the name evolved over the years to fit the horse she really was: quick, endearing, a little bit unexpected, and highly independent.

The hardest part of anticipating this parting, besides surviving the crashing waves of grief, has been wondering who I will be without her. In so many ways, she formed me: I learned how to lend her my calm when she was nervous instead of adding my own anxiety into the mix; I learned to lead with confidence even when my follower is ten times my size; I learned what it feels like to be free and independent on those long, solitary rides in the fields or around the Winterstein loop.

To her, I was strong and trustworthy, a safe place—even when I felt scared, small, and weak. Sometimes all it takes to become something is for someone to believe that’s what you already are.

I had no idea back then that the horse I was trying to train was actually training me in all the skills I now use daily to be a wife, a mom, a disciple.

It’s hard to release her, the link between Hallie the child and Hallie the adult, especially knowing that she might be the only horse I’ll ever have that is really “mine.” But the tattoo on my inner being is still there. I’m still the same dreamer, meeting God beneath cloud-trails and on horseback, in the shadow of mountains and the sunshine of daisies.

And I know who I’ll be riding in the ranks of the armies of heaven. ☺

Now the earth was formless and void, darkness covered the surface of the watery depths, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the surface of the waters. Then God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. God saw that the light was good, and God separated the light from the darkness. God called the light “day,” and the darkness he called “night.” There was an evening, and there was a morning: one day.

- Genesis 1:2-5

SUGGESTED READINGS: Psalm 104, Isaiah 60:1-3, Mark 4:35-41, 2 Corinthians 4:1-6

“Let there be light.”

Let the voice of God, His Holy Breath, command darkness and chaos to retreat to their proper places. The uncreation state is not empty nothingness into which matter must be injected; it is a chaotic wasteland, from which order and abundance must be made. The chaos-taming, desert-farming, order-making God is the same One present with the disciples thousands of years into the earth’s future, sleeping serenely in the midst of the storm until they wake Him—and the תהו ובהו, the tohu va vohu, the formless void remembers His voice.

“Peace, be still.”

There is light before there are stars to produce it. There are days before there is a sun to dictate them. There is quietude before the storm should reasonably have been able to pass, because this world is under the authority of the King whose throne is on high, who “wraps Himself in light as with a garment”—not its own star-paths or weather patterns.

Elohim—the God-without-origin from Genesis 1:1—is also a God without fear. Chaos is no threat to Him. Darkness is no threat to Him. The best of Creation’s terrors and the worst of Uncreation’s desolation are just a breath away from being silenced and undone by His word; how much less can the evil deeds of a few rebellious men scare Him? How much less can the Enemy hope to prevail against Him?

Fearlessly He commands the darkness. Fearlessly He guides His people through the wilderness. Fearlessly He sleeps in the storm. Fearlessly He submits to His own execution.

He merely looks on the earth, and it trembles.

And it is good.

Rinsing a dish
in the sink
where the sunlight streams in

How does the world still turn?

My baby says “Mama”
and I smile
and cry
to think of the mamas whose babies will die

For no good reason, only they
got caught in the crossfire between power plays

Strawberry juice down my three-year-old’s chin
and ribbons of shadow
because the sun shines

Why here?
Why do we
get to live untouched and wild and free

When a world away and yet in our backyard
families hide
or are taken
torn apart

And what should I do, besides rinse a dish
and wipe a face
and smile
and cry

Because of the babies whose mamas will die

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.

- Genesis 1:1

SUGGESTED READINGS: Psalm 33, John 1:1-3, Colossians 1:16-17, Revelation 4:11

The story starts with One who is, for now, simply called “Elohim.”

It’s the plural of a very ordinary Hebrew noun for an ordinary god, a divine ruler or judge. But the writer makes an extraordinary statement about this “ordinary” supernatural being: In the beginning, Elohim created the skies and the land.

Of course, such a claim would be far less extraordinary to its contemporaries than it is to us. Every ancient culture had an explanation for the origins of the world they inhabited, and all of them were linked to the activities of the supernatural. But unlike the stories told by the ancient Egyptians, Elohim didn’t Himself evolve from the preexisting chaos state of the uncreated space, nor did He achieve creation by reproducing Himself into an order of multiple other gods. And in contrast with the cosmology of the ancient Babylonians, who believed the world had come into form as the byproduct of cosmic wars between supernatural rivals, the Biblical creation narrative begins simple, peaceful, and authoritative.

There is no rival to Elohim.

There is no origin of Elohim.

From the first words of the Scriptures, He is set apart and supreme, eternal and ever-present. And He creates.

Heavens, or skies: The space belonging to the divine.

Earth, or land: The space governed by His human representatives, the ones He makes in His likeness.

In the beginning of human history, Elohim formed divine space and human space, and married them into one indivisible unit of sky and land, atmosphere and earth. From the outset of time, He intended to dwell within His creation and among His creatures, sharing all His goodness, His glory, and, yes, even His power with His image-bearers.

The God who has neither origin nor rival has no cause to be stingy with His abundance.

The funny thing about calling into question the accepted understanding of a tertiary issue (as I have done over the last year or so, regarding the status of women in Christian spaces) is that you find out how many people actually hold it as a secondary doctrine—or even almost primary. Not because they really believe that what I think about the “role” of women in churches and marriages has any bearing on my standing before God (I don’t think?), but because our whole culture currently runs on extremes, and we generally don’t know how to handle the idea that gray area or other interpretations exist. Especially as it regards things of God and the Bible.

Of all things, surely these, at least, must be black-and-white.

Right?

I certainly used to think so. But the more time I’ve spent poring over the pages of the Bible and listening to the Spirit that brings them to life, the less I’ve been able to retain that monochrome worldview. Do we really think that the nature of God and His glorious design for Creation and humanity and the kingdom of heaven can be described without a full scope of color and light? Ezekiel tried to tell us what it was like to witness just one brief vision of God’s glory, and the passage is bursting with color:

Something like a throne with the appearance of lapis lazuli was above the expanse over their heads. On the throne, high above, was someone who looked like a human. From what seemed to be his waist up, I saw a gleam like amber, with what looked like fire enclosing it all around. From what seemed to be his waist down, I also saw what looked like fire. There was a brilliant light all around him. The appearance of the brilliant light all around was like that of a rainbow in a cloud on a rainy day. This was the appearance of the likeness of the Lord’s glory. When I saw it, I fell facedown and heard a voice speaking.

Ezekiel 1:26-28

It gives me pause to recall how much of my life I’ve spent limiting how God is “allowed” to act in my life, in the church, or in the world. We build our tidy sets of theological walls, made from little rows of black words on a white page, to contain our gods—proof-texting and cherry-picking and forgetting altogether that the true God operates in another dimension, where our comfortable boundaries are meaningless.

In that realm, color and creativity and living water flood out from every crevice. Curiosity is rewarded with wonder. Ask, and receive—seek, and find. The Father God reveals His heart. The Savior Jesus wins our access. The Holy Spirit beckons us in.

It’s a new and better Eden, lush with the Creator’s life-giving presence and heart-changing glory. He is abundant, and abundantly generous, giving us Himself.

God forbid we wait around to die instead of taking hold of the victory and living like citizens of that kingdom now! Abiding in the nurture of God’s heart is for today. Abiding in the triumph of Christ’s defeat of sin and death is for today. Abiding in the tranquility of the Spirit’s voice is for today.

We’ve met the true God. Can we stop trying to shrink Him down into the form of a golden calf?

We’ve been set free, made new by grace. Can we actually shake off our chains and stop fearing what it means to live without the tutelage of the law?

We’ve been adopted as daughters and sons into the Royal Family! Can we please stop acting like we’re still banished and cursed?

I know that we haven’t entered the full reality of Christ’s victory yet. But that seems like a poor excuse to actively choose a life characterized by defeat or narrow-mindedness. The Spirit of God—who raised Jesus from the dead!—lives in us. Hallelujah!

Let’s wonder at these truths, and fear not our wondering, because if God is good and holy, He will reveal His goodness and holiness in response to our honest curiosity. And then, even here on earth, we might get to see hints of heaven’s glorious color.

I’ve been reading through the Bible in 180 days almost every year since I got married 10 years ago. It’s been so good—flying high over the surface of God’s Word from January to the end of June, sometimes with a large group of fellow readers and sometimes with a small one. Some years it’s been lots of audio Bible; some years it’s been pages of personal notetaking; some years it’s been writing out insights daily or weekly for those reading along with me. I’ve learned so much about the structure of the Bible, the character of God, and the story of Jesus as the Savior of Creation.

With that big-picture foundation in place, I knew it was finally time to dive deep again. And what better place to start than the prologue of the story?

Every day in January, I read through Genesis 1-11, discovering questions and curiosities, noticing truths about who God is, learning new things about who God made me to be, and realizing what a different world we could all live in if we knew the God of Genesis.

He’s a God of order.

The Creation story doesn’t tell us how He made a material universe out of a blank void, but rather how His Spirit formed an orderly world out of a chaotic wasteland. He carefully separated out the different components of the world—light from darkness, sky from waters, land from seas, day from night—and grouped together the different life forms into their kinds: vegetation, sea creatures, birds, and animals. The pinnacle of it all, human beings who were made in His likeness, He created as one and yet also in two: male and female.

He wants to collaborate with humans.

Instead of creating the earth to be a space for Him to practice dictatorial tyranny, He commissioned His image bearers to rule over it together and to participate in the ongoing activities of life-making and ground-working.

He is a gentle parent.

When His image bearers were deceived and betrayed Him, He didn’t get angry. He didn’t make harsh threats. He didn’t leave them alone to think about what they’d done, He didn’t strike them dead on the spot, He didn’t shame them for their stupidity or their nakedness. Instead, God sought them out, heard them, cared for them, and covered their shame.

He models both grace and boundaries.

There were clear consequences for Adam and Eve’s sin, and they were upheld graciously as protective boundaries, not punitively as wrathful punishment. The same gracious boundaries led to the catastrophic Flood—not because God hated or wanted to destroy what He had made, but because the earth was so corrupted that it must be cleansed.

He is clear and direct.

We don’t have to guess or infer or hope to figure out what He wants. When He called humankind to rule over Creation, He said it directly and repeated it several times. When He received Cain’s subpar offering, He clearly communicated how Cain could do what was right. When He made a covenant with Noah, He spelled out the exact terms.

There is so much more, an endless wealth of truth to be mined from these first eleven chapters of the Bible. This month, I’m zeroing in on Genesis 1, and already overwhelmed by the beauty of how God created our world and how the Spirit inspired the Biblical authors to record it.

If you want to join me in any of this, here’s the plan I made (and here’s the notetaking journal I’m using):

• January: Read Genesis 1-11 daily

• February: Read Genesis 1 daily, and Genesis 1-11 weekly

• March: Read Genesis 2 daily, and Genesis 1-11 weekly

• April: Read Genesis 3 daily, and Genesis 1-11 weekly

• May: Read Genesis 4 daily, and Genesis 1-11 weekly

• June: Read Genesis 5 daily, and Genesis 1-11 weekly

• July: Read Genesis 6 daily, and Genesis 1-11 weekly

• August: Read Genesis 7 daily, and Genesis 1-11 weekly

• September: Read Genesis 8 daily, and Genesis 1-11 weekly

• October: Read Genesis 9 daily, and Genesis 1-11 weekly

• November: Read Genesis 10 daily, and Genesis 1-11 weekly

• December: Read Genesis 11 daily, and Genesis 1-11 weekly

What do you see in the picture above?

Is it an all-seeing eye? Or is it an eerie black cave?

It’s both.

When I was about three years old, the same age as my daughter Clara, I remember the power going out in the middle of the night. We lived in a double-wide mobile home in the middle of nowhere, so when the power went out on a moonless night, it was darkness like most of us never see anymore. I couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face, and I was scared—terrified. I could only think of one thing to do: Get to my mom and dad’s room, because with them, I’d be safe.

Very carefully, I slid out of bed. My bedroom was tiny, and I figured it wouldn’t be too hard to map my way to the doorway. A few steps forward, then a right turn, a few more steps—and I’d be out in the hall. From there I would just have to make it straight across the living room to my parents’ bedroom door.

Step, step, step. Turn. Step, step—bang.

It wasn’t my doorway I had found. It was bars. Vertical bars, like a jail. I gripped one in each hand and felt my whole body seize silently with terror. They had locked me in. I couldn’t escape this horrible dark place. I was trapped.

This memory resurfaces often for me, usually at random and without much emotion attached. I’ve always wondered why it stuck with me so clearly for so long—until I realized recently, with some guidance from my counselor, that even though this event occurred nearly 27 years ago, I have unconsciously relived it about a thousand times since.

When my idealistic illusions of my marriage shattered—trapped. When I was sitting in the Neuro ICU waiting room for what felt like days on end—trapped. When I had a newborn baby and postpartum depression—trapped. When I sat in church community groups in disagreement, yet unable to speak—trapped.

Most recently, when I had to force-feed my too-small baby who was always happy except when she was eating, but had to eat for the sake of her own development: Trapped.

My counselor said I might benefit from what she called “memory work.” It’s where you return to the memory and relive it as realistically as you can. While you’re there, you seek until you find where God was in that moment—where the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit were in the scene with you.

I tried, but I felt handicapped by my logical mind. I’d try to feel the bars in my hands and I’d hear my left-brain saying, “This isn’t going to work. You know you’re not actually there.” So I tried something else my counselor has suggested before as a bridge into my right-brain: art.

The picture above began with my paintbrush dipped in black. I painted the black of that room where I had felt so trapped, the choking quality of an unfathomable darkness. I added other colors and shapes and concepts as the memory stirred me. And when the picture was complete, I finally discovered where God had been—or maybe more accurately, where I was in relation to God: In the center of His eye all along.

My dad came down the hall carrying a candle. His voice was gentle and reassuring. I could see, finally, in that dim and flickering light, that the bars I thought were a jail they’d put up to contain me were just the railing of my sister’s crib. I had miscalculated my steps and never reached the door.

I think my joy and relief to see that faint glow of light and Dad’s face must be something like what Creation felt when the baby Jesus drew His first human breath.

A thrill of hope.

Maybe I wasn’t truly trapped. Maybe they did really love me. Maybe I wouldn’t be stuck in the dark by myself forever.

Maybe, even though all I could see was darkness, I was actually enveloped on all sides by the dazzling embrace of a loving and compassionate God.

O holy night! the stars are brightly shining;
It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope—the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!
Fall on your knees! O hear the angel voices!
O night divine, O night when Christ was born!

- O Holy Night by Placide Cappeau (translated by John S. Dwight), 1847