6 Gifts You Need This Christmas

December 20, 2013

6 Gifts You Need This Christmas

The words of the great prophecy came not in a time of triumph, trumpeted from the rooftop of a palace or on a victorious battleground. Instead, they were whispered in the dark, underneath the rumblings of an enemy invasion and a sweeping defeat. They trickled underground, slow and quiet, to a people huddled in the cold—a people whose hopes had been crushed, whose candle had all but been extinguished.

The people who walked in darkness
have seen a great light;
those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness,
on them has light shone.—Isaiah 9:2

Today Christmas meets us wherever we are, too, whether in a patch of light and joy, or stumbling along without a lantern, trying to fend off the encroaching darkness. And so this Christmas, here are the six gifts all of us need—the six gifts I wish for you, no matter how dark the night may be.

For those times when life is a gerbil wheel and you find yourself going through the motions day after day, wondering where the joy went . . . may you know Him as Wonderful.

For the times when you’re seeking clarity, but all the paths before you are overgrown with weeds . . . may you know Him as Counselor.

For the times when you feel powerless, trampled down by the very ones who were supposed to protect you . . . may you know Him as Mighty God.

For the times when you have to say good-bye too soon . . . may you know Him as Everlasting.

For the times when you are lonely and scared and longing for someone who will love you unconditionally . . . may you know Him as Father.

For the times when your world is spinning faster than you can keep up, with your soul close behind . . . may you know Him as the Prince of Peace.

For to us a child is born,
to us a son is given;
and the government shall be upon his shoulder.and his name shall be called
Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. —Isaiah 9:6

December 17, 2013

Christmas through the Eyes of a Carpenter

My family has a unanimously agreed-upon no-Christmas-gifts policy, and my dad hasn’t set foot in a mall since circa 1986, so I was surprised when he told me he had something for me in the basement—something I needed to open before Christmas.

Intrigued, I made my way downstairs to find a large lump sitting on the Ping-Pong table, draped unceremoniously with a black garbage bag. I raised an eyebrow at Dad before pulling back the plastic to unveil the mystery item.

When I realized what it was, I’m pretty sure I squealed louder than I did the Christmas I was eight and awoke to find my pink-and-purple banana-seat bike under the tree. “It’s a stable!” I exclaimed. “For my nativity set!”

Ever since I’d gotten a nativity set, I’d been looking for a stable big enough to fit the figures, but I’d had no success. And since I didn’t want Mary and Joseph and the rest of the crew to look freakishly disproportionate in their Bethlehem abode, thus far the crèche figurines had been without shelter. Until now. Dad, being the handyman he is, had come up with a solution to my dilemma: he’d built a custom-sized stable himself.

My dad, Joseph, the carpenter.

He pointed out all the details of the stable: the ladder that led to the loft, the perch where a bird could sit, the spotlight that would shine on Baby Jesus, the place where he’d had to cover the blood after cutting his finger. His voice grew animated as he told me that the whole thing was made of found materials—scrap wood, paint-stirring sticks, twigs he and Mom had found in the backyard, sawdust shavings from the basement floor.

On my way home that night, glancing at the work of art in the seat beside me, I couldn’t help but think of another Joseph, another carpenter, another father. Why did God pick Joseph as Jesus’ adoptive father? I wondered. Mary features prominently in the Christmas story, but we don’t hear much about Joseph, and I guess I’d always pictured him as her silent sidekick. But surely God had a reason to write him into the story too.

As I thought about my dad pounding and sawing for months leading up to December, it struck me that at a carpenter’s very heart is the ability to believe in a crazy, far-fetched dream. A carpenter is someone who can embrace a vision before it’s a reality, someone who can take ordinary scraps and see them not as they are but as they could be one day. A carpenter is someone who believes the impossible . . . and then gets to work building it.

Thousands of years ago, when Joseph heard his fiancée was pregnant, an angel appeared to him in a dream:

Joseph, son of David,” the angel said, “do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife. For the child within her was conceived by the Holy Spirit. And she will have a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins. —Matthew 1:20-21

Joseph was given a dream that day—a dream made of ordinary-looking scraps: A pregnant girl. A common laborer. A family without clout or fortune or political connections. A community skeptical of his fiancée’s claims. But somehow Joseph was able to take those found pieces and believe that the God-given vision was true: that this baby really would be the Messiah, the promised one, the one who would save the people from their sins.

When Joseph woke up, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded and took Mary as his wife. —Matthew 1:24

In the face of the impossible, Joseph rolled up his sleeves and got to work, doing his part to hammer a miraculous dream into reality.

So every time I see that stable on my mantel, I’ll think of two Josephs. Like those dreamers, I want to see in the scraps around me the visions God is building in my life. The pieces themselves might not be much to look at on their own. But in the deft hands of the Carpenter, they just might become something beautiful.

God’s gifts put man’s best dreams to shame. —Elizabeth Barrett Browning

October 4, 2013

Happy (Thirty) Sixth Birthday to Me

Thirty years ago today—my 6^th birthday—the Worst Birthday Disaster Ever turned into my Best Birthday Party Ever. (Because obviously, when you’re six, the world is one big superlative.)

When September rolled around, Mom said, “It’s time to start thinking about your birthday!” just as she did every year. So we sat down at the kitchen table and went through the annual checklist to pull off a party personalized just for me. And as always, I felt like the most special girl in the whole world.

What theme do you want for your party? (I must have had some undue influence from Rainbow Brite, because the theme always seemed to include some variation of rainbows and hearts.)

What shape do you want for your cake? (Yes, Mom made it from scratch.)

What flavor do you want for the cake? (Cherry. Every single time.)

Everything was nailed down, and I could feel my little heart fluttering in anticipation.

But then came the final question:

Who do you want to invite to your party?

I swallowed hard. “Mom,” I said, “I wish my birthday was in the spring, not the fall.”

She looked at me quizzically. “Why, honey?”

“It’s too early in the year. I don’t have friends yet.

And it was true. I was the slow-to-warm-up kid, the shy girl, the one who stood on the outskirts at recess until she worked up the confidence to break in sometime around second semester.

Mom didn’t miss a beat. “No problem,” she said. “We’ll just invite all the girls in your class.”

There was no trace of panic in her eyes, but looking back now, I have to wonder if she was secretly hyperventilating. How on earth would she fit 16 girls in our house?

But at the age of almost-six, I didn’t notice. My eyes were already dancing with visions of hearts and rainbows. In an instant, through the magic of Mom’s words, I’d gone from having zero friends to having 15.

And when it was time to blow out the candles on my heart-shaped cake, surrounded by every single girl in my class, I felt so happy I might as well have swallowed a rainbow whole. For once, everything seemed so perfect I could hardly think of anything to wish for. I remember offering a halfhearted wish for the ultimate icing on the day: an actual rainbow in the sky.

But I have a hunch God gave priority to a mom’s prayers in that moment. A mom who was whispering prayers for the heart of a little girl who wanted a friend. A mom who was making a wish herself—for a day free of rain (and accompanying rainbows) so there would be room for 16 little girls in party hats at the table outside.

This is 30 years late, but thanks, Mom. Thanks for the Best Birthday Party Ever.

August 27, 2013

The Summer Day

Last weekend my husband and I escaped to a charming bed and breakfast along the Mississippi River to celebrate our anniversary. The town itself isn’t much to speak of—it has seen better economies, better days, better centuries even. But Ed and Sandy, the owners of the B&B, have created a little sanctuary right there in the heart of the town—a place of respite amid the busyness of life.

After a breakfast of pancakes loaded with plump blueberries, hot coffee with real cream, and fresh sweet strawberries, Daniel and I sat on the huge wrap-around front porch, serenaded by the songbirds and gurgling fountains that grace the property. Butterflies flitted from flower to flower, apparently as enticed by the aroma of the purple phlox as we were.

Then Daniel pulled out his guitar started playing right there on the front porch, and as the morning sun filtered through the trees onto my neck, I wished I could bottle the moment and keep it all year. Summer in a jar.

At one point Daniel looked over at me and noticed that my book was uncharacteristically closed on my lap. I was just sitting there, silent, taking it all in.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, no doubt concerned I’d slipped into a food coma after all those pancakes.

I couldn’t quite put it into words. But Mary Oliver captures the moment in her poem “The Summer Day.”

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
—Mary Oliver

Sometimes prayer is about structure and discipline and articulate words. But sometimes it’s simply learning “how to be idle and blessed.” Sometimes prayer is sitting on the front porch soaking in this wild and wonderful world God has made.

Sometimes prayer is just paying attention.

So as summer slips into September and kids don backpacks and the days start taking shortcuts toward dusk, I want to take time to seize these final summer days. I don’t want life to slip by as I rush through my busy to-do list.

This summer day, this gift from God—what will I do with it? What will I do with this one wild and precious life?

July 30, 2013

Fireflies of the Soul

At first glance, it may seem that God sprinkled the Midwest with the leftovers when he was distributing nature’s gifts. We can’t see the purple mountains’ majesty from here, and our shorelines boast no waving palm trees. We don’t waken to the sound of crashing ocean waves or plunging waterfalls, and our rest stops don’t sell postcards of stately lighthouses.

But over the years I’ve come to suspect that God had a few secrets up his sleeve when he made the heartland, a few gifts to compensate for an otherwise lackluster showing. These gifts aren’t big or loud or dramatic, and only those with a discerning eye notice them. But once you discover them, like so many clues on a treasure hunt, you just may find yourself settling in and calling the place home.

There are the sunny daffodils that peek sleepy heads out of the ground after a long, cold winter. There’s the never-ending canvas of sky, alternately dotted with cotton-ball clouds and painted with fiery oranges and pinks as the sun dips below the horizon. There’s the beautiful dying of the trees as they explode in a final display of color before hunkering down for the winter.

And then there are the fireflies that make their appearance on hot summer evenings. Maybe most of all, the fireflies.

My friend and I were walking along the trail at dusk the other night, and it was one of those evenings that succumbed to nightfall in a whisper of a second. One moment we could see the path beneath our feet, and the next we were treading into darkness.

Maybe the cover of evening makes it easier for truth to leak out, but it was in that sacred moment of dusk-to-darkness that my friend’s secret spilled over the edges. Her happy, surprising news that just couldn’t stay bottled up inside her anymore.

The words were barely off her lips when the fireflies ignited in a symphony of lights, illuminating the sky with their pulsing. Just one moment earlier they were nowhere to be found, yet with the single flip of a switch, we were surrounded by thousands of tiny flashlights, small enough to fit in the palm of our hands.

And I wondered: Had they appeared out of nowhere, on cue somehow? Or had they been there all along, and I just couldn’t see them without the curtain of darkness?

Most of the time I fear the darkness, shrink away from it, attempt to push it back. But what if some of those secret bursts of light God has hidden in my heart can only show up against the backdrop of darkness?

I don’t want to miss anything in this ordinary, glorious landscape of my Midwestern soul. So if the darkness needs to come as a backdrop to those little divine beacons, then let it come. Let it come, so I can see the flickering light, so I can hold it in the palm of my hand. I don’t want to miss a single firefly of the soul.

“We do not truly see light, we only see slower things lit by it, so that for us light is on the edge—the last thing we know before things become too swift for us.”

—C. S. Lewis

June 7, 2013

Tree Funerals and Other Necessary Endings

I’ve been to too many tree funerals lately.

First it was the big old elm tree in my parents’ front yard—the Climbing Tree, all of us kids called it.

I’d always thought the Giving Tree was a little over the top about a hunk of deadwood…until I found out my own Climbing Tree’s days were numbered.

It was the perfect tree for a kid, with its low, sturdy limbs to get you started and plenty of compact branches to perch on. After a summer day full of playing outside or helping my parents in the garden, I’d bring my book into the tree and sit in my reading spot—a “V” between branches that was cozy enough for me to be able to turn the pages of the next Anne of Green Gables book without having to hang on.

It was the first tree to turn gold in the fall, marking the commencement of my favorite season and ushering in my birthday. The tree was also my first glimpse of home when I returned from college, those sweeping branches beckoning welcome to a homesick heart.

So when my parents told me it was time to take down the old tree, I weakly argued for them to let it stand a little longer (after all, it still had six green leaves on it!). Deep down I knew it was time, but there’s inherent sadness that comes with taking an ax to something that was once so vibrant and full of life. It wasn’t just the end of the tree; it was the end of an era.

One day not long after my parents’ announcement about the Climbing Tree, I arrived home at my own place to find that all the trees lining our street had been systematically mowed down by orders of the city—casualties of the ash borer infestation. The stump of each tree had been spray-painted with neon letters that read “OK,” apparently an indication that there were no lingering signs of the guilty little vermin. But as I walked around our post-apocalyptic neighborhood inspecting each spot that had once held a tall symbol of life, I wanted to scream, “No! It’s not okay!”

***

I’ve been reading a book by Henry Cloud called Necessary Endings, and in it he talks about how sometimes we have to do the hard work of chopping down projects and relationships whose season has past.

“Good cannot begin until bad ends,” he says. “Endings are not only part of life; they are a requirement for living and thriving, professionally and personally. Being alive requires that we sometimes kill off things in which we were once invested, uproot what we previously nurtured, and tear down what we built for an earlier time.”

Cloud says there are three categories of things that may need to end:

1. Healthy buds or branches that are not the best ones

2. Sick branches that are not going to get well

3. Dead branches that are taking up space needed for the healthy ones to thrive

As painful as endings are, we are wise to make the tough call and end these things now, before more damage is done.

Are there some necessary endings you need to bring about in your life?

Do you have a vampire-friend who is slowly sucking the life out of you?
Is there a relationship you know you should end but you’re hanging on to it because you’re afraid to be alone?
Is there some commitment that was once life giving but its season is now up?
Has God made it clear that your time at your job has come to an end, but fear is holding you back?

Necessary Endings are painful because we know the chainsaw is going to hurt. And once the tree is gone, it will leave behind a gaping hole—one we’ll likely tumble into for some time.

But as tempting as it is to put off the pain, delaying a needed ending only makes things worse. After all, the pain is there as a megaphone, telling us something needs to change. Henry Cloud puts it this way: “Pain by its nature is a signal that something is wrong, and action is required. So pain should be driving you to do something to end it.”

Here’s the thing: there won’t be a place to plant a new, healthy tree if the old diseased one stays there.

Is there a Necessary Ending you need to bring about so you can make way for a New Beginning? If so, let me know how I can pray for you as you rev up your chainsaw.

April 26, 2013

The Floodwaters Are Up to My Neck

A state of emergency was declared for my area last week after what can only be described as biblical levels of flooding. The wise among us sought higher ground; the wiser stayed home to bail out basements; the wisest started constructing an ark.

And me? I went to work.

You’d think I would have turned back when I saw all the cars stalled on the side of the road or when I encountered puddles the size of Lake Michigan. But no, I was determined to get to the office, even if it meant I’d have to swim there.

When I finally arrived, after countless detours and some heroic efforts on the part of my little car, I was dismayed to find the parking lot impassable. That would have been another prime opportunity to turn back, but I doggedly pressed on. After parking on an elevated side street, I grabbed my coffee and umbrella and traipsed through the wet slop in my heels.

Everything was going swimmingly, so to speak, until I got to the raging river I had to cross to make it to the entrance. I did my best to calculate the jump but failed to take into account the fact that the ground was roughly the consistency of maple syrup. As soon as I hit the other side, I heard it before I felt it: slurp! Sure enough, my entire foot, heel and all, had been sucked underground. I tried to steady myself, and slurp!—the other foot surrendered to the mud.

I finally got inside, tights dripping and shoes full of sludge. How was I going to make it through the day with sopping feet? That’s when my stroke of genius hit: The hand dryer! After twenty minutes of standing in the restroom on alternating feet, my shoes finally stopped making gurgling noises each time I took a step.

Then, just as I exited the restroom, I heard the announcement: “Our office will be closed today. Please leave now to ensure you will be able to get your car out.”

And so it was time to turn around and cross the temporary creek again.

I found the whole escapade entertaining since the damage for me was limited to my pride and a pair of tights. But as I started getting calls from friends and family and hearing news reports about the wreckage people had sustained, the gravity of the situation began to sink in.

flood2

And so it is with the personal floods we face—the loss of a job, the severing of a relationship, the chokehold of grief, the dailyness of life. The floodwaters creep higher and higher, and we feel certain they’re going to pull us under. And even worse, God seems to stand far off in the distance, sending no rescue boat our way.

The psalmist David knew firsthand how lonely that drowning sensation can feel. Here’s the prayer he offered in the midst of his own flood:

Save me, O God,

for the floodwaters are up to my neck.

Deeper and deeper I sink into the mire;

I can’t find a foothold.

I am in deep water,

and the floods overwhelm me. . . .

Rescue me from the mud;

don’t let me sink any deeper!

Save me from those who hate me,

and pull me from these deep waters.

Don’t let the floods overwhelm me,

or the deep waters swallow me.

—Psalm 69:1-2, 15

Even if our floodwaters recede and the immediate crisis passes, it’s not over. There’s still the muddy aftermath to deal with—bailing out the basement, evaluating the damage, determining if anything can be salvaged, beginning the tedious cleanup process.

Sometimes it just feels like too much.

In those post-flood moments, we have a choice.

Will we give up and sink into the mire?

Or will trust that God will rescue us, even when no rescue is in sight?

Answer my prayers, O Lord,

for your unfailing love is wonderful.

Take care of me,

for your mercy is so plentiful.

—Psalm 69:16

If you find the floodwaters swirling around your neck today, take heart. God will take care of you; he will show you his unfailing love. And when you are stuck in the basement of life, dealing with the flood’s messy aftermath, may you discover his mercy among the ruins.

April 23, 2013

Saying Goodbye

We weren’t made to say goodbye.

Goodbye always comes like a thief…unexpected, startling, jarring. And too soon. Always too soon.

Even when we know it’s coming, there’s no real way to be prepared.

I think of my friend Sarah, whose dad is too young to have cancer. She was just there for Christmas, and he was his usual cheerful self, playing endless games of pretend with his grandkids, fixing things around the house, eating his trademark bologna sandwich. She’s not ready to say goodbye.

I think of the parents in Newtown who sent their children off to school one December morning, with no way of knowing it would be the last hug, the last wave, the last goodbye.

I think of the city of Boston, all abuzz with the spirit of friendly competition earlier last week, never dreaming it would be a day for goodbyes.

I’m not typically someone who shirks reality, but lately I find myself flipping channels when the news comes on, skipping over the bad news stories, closing my ears to yet another tale of premature goodbyes.

It isn’t supposed to be this way. We weren’t made for goodbyes.

***

Over Easter my extended family made a road trip out east to see my brother and his family—a rare treat for all of us to be happily sardined in one place. When it was time to leave, we went through the long, ceremonial goodbyes, offering hugs and inside jokes and recaps of the trip and promises to get together again soon.

Then it came time for my mom to say goodbye to four-year-old Lyla, her only granddaughter. Mom stretched out her arms and wrapped the girl, pajamas and all, in one of those all-encompassing hugs only a grandma can pull off. I didn’t have to look at her face to know she was crying.

Lyla pulled back and looked intently into her grandma’s face.

“Grandma,” she said, her tone somber, grown-up. “I can make you cry.”

“You sure can!” My mom smiled at Lyla through her tears.

Without missing a beat, Lyla delivered her line: “Knock-knock.”

Mom looked surprised but played along. “Who’s there?”

“Boo.” A smug grin crept onto Lyla’s face.

“Boo who?”

With that, Lyla threw her arms around Grandma and giggled. The laughter was infectious, and before long, all of us were giggling like little girls.

It felt biblical, in a way. Tears into laughter. Mourning into joy.

Weeping may last through the night,

but joy comes with the morning.

—Psalm 30:5

***

I have no words to make sense of senseless tragedy or to explain when people have to say goodbye before their time.

But I do know that we were made for a different world. A world where there’s no crying or death or sorrow or pain. A world where, overnight, weeping morphs into joy.

He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.

—Revelation 21:4

Come, Lord Jesus.

Why love if losing hurts so much? We love to know that we are not alone.

—C. S. Lewis

January 8, 2013

God’s Stocking Stuffers

Almost two years ago, my friend Mary and her husband, John, went to Ukraine to meet their new son and bring him home. Igor had grown up in rather frugal conditions in the orphanage, so he was pretty blown away by his first Christmas in the States last year. Even now, a year later, he’s still trying to wrap his mind around the extravagant traditions in his new home.

“We get gifts and stockings?” he kept wondering aloud to his older brothers.

I asked Mary if Igor had any special requests for Christmas this year.

“Yes,” she told me with a smile. “He was really excited about the idea of getting an apple in his stocking.”

An apple.

Mary and John were happy to oblige. They’re his parents, after all, and those gifts are just one of many ways they delight in showing their son how much he’s loved.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about God’s gifts to us, despite how undeserving we are. He puts big gifts for us under the tree—or, more aptly, nailed to the tree—things like salvation and forgiveness and reconciliation with him.

He could stop there, and the gift would be sufficient for all of eternity. But that’s not the extent of his generosity. He also stuffs our stockings, showering us with bonus gifts that have no purpose other than to show us his delight in us, to reveal his extravagant love.

The other night as I was climbing into bed, I was greeted by Daniel’s stuffed rat on my pillow. Now lest you doubt my husband’s romanticism, I should assure you that where we come from, “Rat” is actually a term of endearment.

Daniel and I discovered early on when we were dating that among other startling family similarities (for instance: his dad is one of 13 siblings; my dad is one of 12), both our dads called us “Rat” or “Little Rat” as an affectionate nickname.

As we got ready for bed that night, Daniel said with a chuckle, “You know, every time our dads called us Rat growing up, God must have just smiled. Like he was saying, Don’t worry, guys—I’ve got this one.”

My mind wandered back to all those years when I’d been waiting for Mr. Right (as I mentioned in this post), wondering if God would answer my prayers, when all along he had the perfect person for me. Even down to the weird nickname.

I wonder how many other times I doubt God, thinking he doesn’t see my pain, when actually he’s just waiting for the precise moment to reveal the gift he has all planned out. Don’t worry, he must be saying. I’ve got this one.

God gives us those little bonus gifts along the way—stocking stuffers, if you will—not because he owes us anything, but to show us how much he loves us. To remind us that he has our lives covered, even if we can’t see the whole picture yet.

He does, after all, love his little rats.

January 1, 2013

A Year of Stubbing My Toe on Grace

I realize that a new year is little more than an arbitrary flip of the calendar, a changing of digits we have to recalibrate to each January. But even if it’s just a psychological prop, I still get a bit of a rush as one year comes to a close and a new one gleams, fresh and untarnished, on the horizon.

On this last day of 2012, I find it hard to believe I’m wrapping up my year of reading the Bible chronologically and posting my musings about it. I’d like to thank you, my readers, for putting up with my ramblings, for encouraging me with your comments, for calling out places where you felt I missed the mark. I appreciate each of you more than I can say.

As a way to recap this past year of “Stubbing My Toe on Grace,” I thought I’d share with you the most priceless gift I received this Christmas. My husband, artist that he is, made a beautiful handcrafted book for me with the top 10 posts from the past year. (Obviously, I cried.)

Here they are, in chronological order:

10. The Burden of Love

9. Grandma’s Prayer

8. God’s Tear Jar

7. On His Hand

6. Once Upon a Time, I Wore a Pretty White Dress

5. On Priests and Awkward Moments

4. A Letter to My 25-Year-Old Self

3. Like Amish Peanut Butter

2. Dumpster Diving

1. What My Two Favorite Toddlers Taught Me about Faith

On this day that marks both endings and beginnings, it seems fitting that today’s reading includes these words from Christ:

Look, I am making everything new! . . . I am the Alpha and the Omega—the Beginning and the End.

—Revelation 21:5-6

As we look back on the year just behind us, we have the assurance that God was the God of everything that transpired in the past 365 days. And on the precipice of a new year, we have the assurance that he is the also the God over all the unknowns that await us in the year ahead.

Whatever your year has held—and whatever life has in store for you in the year to come—may you rest in the arms of the One who is both the Beginning and the End.

December 2012 009