One week before we celebrated the birth of Jesus Christ, I had lunch with my two older children, now ages 19 and 21. We laughed, talked, and enjoyed our time together. After lunch I sat quietly in my study reflecting on the week before their births.
I thought back to the swell of my tummy, the mixed emotions of fear and wonderment, and the times when I talked to the Lord about bringing a baby into this world. The afternoon turned to twilight and the house remained quiet. I thought of Mary, Jesus’s mother. She was far from today’s standards of “successful mom-to-be”: a teenager, pregnant, poor, common, hopeless. What a tragic perspective we have of what is “God-worthy.”
As I thought, I sat convicted.
What Would Mary Do?
By the world’s standards, I have a different child too. My son Jon has helped me see life in a unique way . . . a priceless gift that can’t be explained to someone who hasn’t walked in similar shoes.
I allowed some of my similarities with Mary to sink in. I wondered, if Mary had written her thoughts a week before she delivered the Son of God, would they have looked something like the following . . .
December 17 . . .
O Father, will I ever feel happy again, like I belong? Belonging seems to bring happiness, and I don’t feel like I belong anymore. Loneliness is painful—an almost visceral, gray ache. Does one ever get used to darting eyes, hushed whispers, or the glassy, silent stares? There is so much noise, yet silence fills each room I enter. Certainly there was someone more “God-worthy” than me to bear this burden. It seems there is no friend for those who are different.
Alone again today, I felt the Son of God turn in my belly like the swell of a slow wake, as His heel or elbow pushed against my skin which arched to the side, shifted, then settled to rest. How I cherish these unhurried waves of graceful movement. While I have nothing that this world considers important, You have given me everything. I have peace, O Father, because You fill the empty spaces in my heart.
But I also feel afraid. Your words echo “do not be afraid” . . . but I am. Fear is like a vast, damp fog—or a long, dull moan that muffles Your voice. Fear causes me to doubt Your words, “Nothing is impossible with God” [Luke 1:37]. Father, are You sure nothing is impossible with You? Nothing? That means with You, everything is possible! That means what I can and can’t see, what I can and can’t touch, what I can and can’t know, that Your power encompasses all time and space. O Father, help me in my fear to trust, in my doubt to believe, and in my loneliness to find confidence in You. You chose me to bear Your Son. In that truth, I have everything.
Let Me Hear from You
Sometimes we wonder if God has chosen the right person to raise a child or care for a special loved one. We wonder if we are “God-worthy.” We often feel utterly inadequate, alone, and bewildered.
Today, I want you to remember God chose you for His purpose. You are His choice . . . and nothing is impossible with God!
NOTHING is impossible with God!
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