Yielding to one another is simply a sign of maturity.

Whether you’re giving in to a friends choice of a favorite restaurant, resolving business differences through understanding your associates perspective or moving towards martial health by putting the toilet seat down, humble concession creates space for productive unity.

But beware of losing your soul.  Concession in spite of strong conviction, leaves a bitter after-taste.  Non-confrontational in the moment it can prove devastating in the long-term.  Conceding your convictions in order to preserve the appearance of stability, friendship or peace is artificial, temporary and downright cowardly.

Concession of conviction is, at it’s core, a strong betrayal of who you are at your core.  Neil T. Anderson says it this way,

“Nobody can consistently behave in a way that is inconsistant with what they believe about themselves.”

Which begs the question:  who are you and what do you believe at the core of your being?

If I told you you were an idiot, simply flaunting your idealistic mantras, would you concede ground?

Or would you stand firm, willing to yield, learn and grow with others, but yet passionately convinced of your core convictions?

Christ’s convictions took Him to the cross.

Interesting type of conviction we should be conceding to…

Advent…December 20…dwell

As I approached him in our alleyway, I noticed the impact from the fall had caused him to lose his bladder.   The dark stain growing on the concrete bore witness to the embarrassing release and his now freshly soaked pants were causing him to slide all over the seat of his bike, thus hampering his ability to get a foot on the pedals.  Down again.

Yup…he had pee’d himself.  And I don’t even think he noticed.  I smiled with a mixture of deep pity and slight amusement.  ”This is my hood, my people, my city,” I thought to myself as I helped him up.  I looked over my shoulder at my son standing cautiously in the back yard, watching the scene unfold in his alley.

I gave him a bemused glance, knowing the conversation that would ensue.  ”Lord, we ain’t in Kansas anymore,” I whispered out loud.

Lemme back up.

Our decision to move from the suburbs to downtown Indianapolis wasn’t based on any kind of economical logic.  We were in the worst housing market in recent history, our home wasn’t anything desirable and we didn’t have a place to go.  Our parents were flabbergasted at our desires and simply shook their heads at our obvious lack of having “thought this idea through.”  They and others were worried about our inability to look at the facts and just wait for the market to clear.  In other words, there was no rational reasoning for leaving.  Except…

We just wanted to dwell among the people of the city.

For years I had walked the streets of downtown Indianapolis, pushing against the unmistakable shift that was wrecking my heart.  I was comfy and well-paid, happy in my westside life.  We had laughed, loved, shouted, cried and raised 3 children in our home.  (most of the shouting and crying happened after their arrival:)  We knew the location of all of the stores, medical facilities and restaurants in the Avon area.  Our friends and our kids friends lived close, a mere stones throw away in multiple directions and our life was understandable.

But I was restless.

¹⁴ The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. John 1:14

That restlessness manifested in walking the streets of downtown Indy and the surrounding neighborhoods in the early moments before dawn.  I would pack a change of clothes then walk, pray and cry over the city.  I would stare into the passing eyes of businessmen/women on the go, students deep in conversation, manual laborers on the job, those experiencing homelessness down in stairwells, artists seeking inspiration, prostitues waiting on a corner…an endless sea of humanity…and I simply fell in love with the people of Indianapolis.

I would often sit with Bible and journal at some picnic tables by the Indianapolis Zoo, and watch the sunrise over the city.  I would pray that just as the sun signals the start of a new day, that the light of Christ would rise over the city, waking us out of darkness…awakening us to the Kingdom.  And that somehow, by God’s grace, my family could be a part of that Great Awakening.  That through the love of Christ, we could see 180° transformations.  That lives would be redeemed, families restored, dreams birthed, culture created and a city drawn back to God.  I’d find corresponding verses to those prayers, write em down and sigh.

And then I’d pack up my stuff and head back to the westside.

The 12 miles from our westside home to the middle of downtown might as well have been an ocean of distance.  The people who commuted in for work were very different than the people who actually lived and dwelt in the downtown neighborhoods.  The beliefs, attitudes, needs and wants were similar to all of mankind.  But the culture of an urban dweller was unique and very foreign to me.  They weren’t going to come to the suburbs.  No, if I wanted to reach them I would have to become like them; breathe the same air, feel the same concerns, see the same possibilites.

I would have to dwell among them.

Never did I realize how costly that shift would be…

(to be continued)

Advent…December 14…human

I keep cussing at the baby Jesus.

Now before you go labeling me a heretic, a label I don’t necessarily mind, lemme explain.  Jesus keeps showing up in the dangdedest places in our home!  One day he’s where he’s supposed to be, the next day he’s missing.  One day he’s back in the cave hangin with the cattle, the next day he’s gone awol again and we’re questioning the other members of the manger about his whereabouts.

And then inevitably I end up stepping on him.  (That’s usually when the cussing occurs.)

“What in tarnation!  Son of a nutcracker!  Who the fiddlejibbers!…why is baby Jesus…dagblasted, my foot!”

When the kids were young it was typically their fault.  They have their own little plastic manger scene and it goes under their little tree.  However, the baby Jesus, along with his posse, were often involved in other household scenarios.  Scenarios that involved anything from GI Joe to dolls to Rescue Heroes.  Jesus was often placed in difficult situations that needed a well meaning shepherd, naked Barbie or bowing wise man to deliver him from evil.  And yet he survived.

Nowadays, our dang dogs are to blame.  I think.  Joseph is a paraplegic, Mary is missing her face and the other folks in the cave are only a pant away from canine mutilation.  I think they’re scared.  Probably gonna unionize soon.

As I stepped on Jesus for the umpteenth time this morning and bent down to return him to his handicapped parents, I was reminded of something slightly cheesy, completely true for Advent.

Jesus was a baby.

Fully human, fully God.  Susceptible to bloodthirsty kings, horrific conditions and yes, even wild dogs roaming the Bethlehem countryside.  He cried, cooed, pooped, laughed and was probably accidentally injured more than once by his rookie parents.  Just like you.  Just like me.  He allowed Himself to come into this space as a baby.  The divine Ruler of the Universe had to be picked up and changed…often.  And that means a ton for you and I.

While they were there, the time came for her to give birth. She gave birth to a son, her firstborn. She wrapped him in a blanket and laid him in a manger, because there was no room in the hostel. Luke 2:6,7

Unlike Ricky Bobby, I don’t pray to the baby Jesus.

I pray because of the baby Jesus.  Fully human, fully God.

He gets me.

Even when I step on him…

…plastic or otherwise.

Advent…December 13…conviction

I would venture a guess that the loss was devastating…especially at night.

I would imagine they grieved with her a while, encouraging her with words of comfort and hope.

“Oh dearest!  Our hearts are breaking with yours.  God will find you a new husband.  And soon!”

I would imagine the well-intentioned voices of friends and family were soothing at first…then slightly wearisome…then downright annoying.

I would imagine something significant took place.  Was it a dream?  Something she read?  An audible voice in the empty home?  What changed the trajectory of her heart?  A visible sign in the Jerusalem sky?   Writing on a wall?

Or was it simply the gentle flicker of a flame in prayer, slowly building in her bones, becoming a fire which would not be extinguished?

Still they shouted: “Come and play with us!  Be free of your sorrow!  Come and live again!”

The voices would tempt innocently enough.  It looked so exhilarating!  How she longed for the life she once lived, the familiar, the known…the plans and dreams of the future, the soft touch of her husband, the thought of grandchildren….

Only memories now, becoming more distant with each passing day.  And yet the further she removed herself from the pain of the past, the deeper she moved into something altogether different.  Something consuming..no, SomeONE consuming.  She was living into the heart of God and beginning to live into a conviction that superseded the norms of the day.  And suddenly, He began to speak…

“I AM coming.  Wait for my appearing.  Pray and fast, for my arrival is near.”

I would imagine they thought it impossible that she had heard from God.  I wonder if SHE thought it impossible?  He is silent these days, nu?  Didn’t she know prophecy had been dead for 300 years?  Silly woman.  I bet their questions turned into arrogance, mocking and eventually grave disdain.

But her questions turned into passion, power and prophecy.

She would stay in the temple, convinced of her calling, living her convictions and growing old in her prayers.

Until…

Anna the prophetess was also there, a daughter of Phanuel from the tribe of Asher. She was by now a very old woman. She had been married seven years and a widow for eighty-four. She never left the Temple area, worshiping night and day with her fastings and prayers. At the very time Simeon was praying, she showed up, broke into an anthem of praise to God, and talked about the child to all who were waiting expectantly for the freeing of Jerusalem. Luke 2:36-38

Advent…December 12…

Like a cat screeching in a microwave, he played on.

I sat flinching my eyes at the sound, trying desperately to absorb the young boys performance with my squinched up face…or my shirt or my socks…or…shoot, absorb it with anything but my ears.  It was a sound only a mother could love and I, thankfully, wasn’t his mother.

Or his father. :)

Our very first Metropolitan Youth Orchestra recital was underway and it was a beut, Clark.  The MYO, under the loving direction of Betty Perry, has given thousands of Indianapolis children exposure, training and appreciation of classical music, as well as an appreciation for the kinds of opportunities and rewards skill, practice and diligence provide.  We absolutely love the program and would highly recommend it.  But young kids on stringed instruments requires a rather forgiving ear…especially tonight.

The old, wood paneled room in a corner of the massive Broadway United Methodist Church, was crammed wall to wall with nervous students and overly expectant parents.  Our youngest son was lingering near the front, a little tense, rockin the faux-hawk, waiting his turn.  He’s just dang gifted on violin.  From the back of the room we had discreetly given him the Three Amigos salute just to make him smile.  I think he relaxed a bit.  But now our focus shifted as yet another student continued the endless procession of “Nails on a Chalkboard in D# Minor.”

I stared at the next performer, a curly-headed child I didn’t know; a child who was now sweating profusely and measured in at about half the size of the instrument he played.  He fidgeted with the music stand, wrestled with the bow, struggled through the fingering, locked in with the accompanist maybe once and hit notes that caused us all to collectively shudder and smile in the same measure.  But there was something beautiful in that moment that spoke to me this Advent season.  Something that transcended time, space and thankfully, sound.

At once the angel was joined by a huge angelic choir singing God’s praises:
Glory to God in the heavenly heights,
Peace to all men and women on earth who please him.

Luke 2:13,14

I started wondering if this is what my best adult efforts sound like to God? Screechy, scratchy, out of tune…broken.  I mean He who created music, He who enjoys music at a level we can’t quite comprehend, surely on my BEST day I fall ridiculously short of anything He’s imagined.  Like I could hold a Christmas candle to choirs of angels.  Like anybody could.  Ok, maybe Justin Beiber.

Yet He LOVES what you and I offer Him, all broken and messed up!  Like the beautifully, out of proportioned stick drawings that hung on our refrigerator.  Drawings that had me wondering how scary I must look to my children with those two different sized eyes and misshapen head. (think Sloth from the Goonies)  Or like the misspelled words, falling-off-the-page cards that I lovingly gave my Mom…some that she still has.  Even when I THINK it’s perfect and I strive for the perfection I want it to be, it’s still broken before a Holy God.

BUT (here’s the cool part)…as jacked up as we are, as out of tune as we sound, when we bring Him something from our heart, I think it absolutely touches His in a way we can’t imagine.  Even if it’s on a cello.

My eyes scanned the room for who might possibly be his parent(s).  No, not them…no, uhmmm..ahhh, there.  Yup, that’s gotta be them.  I saw the probable Dad…Iphone stretched out, jockeying for a clear shot, catching every wince-able moment to relieve and share proudly with family.  Little sister staring straight ahead with great admiration (and was that awe?) at what was probably her older brother.

And then there was what had to be Mom.  Had to be when I saw her face.  A thousand words and a thousand pictures couldn’t accurately describe what I saw.  She was simply glowing; radiating an inward fire that reached out in love toward the object of her affection.  Here was a nervous, curly headed, sweat-soaked little boy that couldn’t play an in-tune, on rythm note to save his life.

And I would imagine it was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard.

Advent…December 8…remember

These scenarios happen waaaay too often in our home:

-I’ll purposefully begin climbing the three flights of stairs in our house.  Eventually (breathlessly) I’ll reach the top floor, scan the area…aaaand then proceed to stand there for the next five minutes arguing with myself like a bumbling idiot about why in the heck I came up here in the first place.  I’ll then tromp angrily back down the stairs, retracing my steps in the hopes that some bread crumb of a clue will trigger my mem-…oh yeah…breadcrumbs–dirty floor–needs cleaning–get vacuum upstairs.  And back up I go…

-Tricia and I will be in deep conversation in the kitchen usually while fixing dinner (something we both enjoy doing).  Inevitably,  one of the Central Island savages that occupy our Indianapolis paradise will skip in, interrupt, and then skip out, usually with a food item they’ve scrounged.  Tricia and I then stare at each other, desperately fighting the empty space, digging into our cerebral cortex to remember what dialogue had so engulfed our speech just a mere 14 seconds ago.

-I’ll sit down at the computer and start typing, expressing with my fingers a beautiful thought that was…uhhh, uhhh, uhhh, D’OH!  DANGITT!!!

Just as he promised long ago
through the preaching of his holy prophets:
Deliverance from our enemies
and every hateful hand;
Mercy to our fathers,
as he remembers to do what he said he’d do,
What he swore to our father Abraham—
a clean rescue from the enemy camp,
So we can worship him without a care in the world,
made holy before him as long as we live. Luke 1:70-75

Call it what you want…to many things going on, lack of focus, stupid Iphone alerts, being overwhelmed, MTV generation, ADD…whatever…I struggle to remember half of the things I set out to do.  And from talking to you, I’ve heard a lot of you struggle too.  At least that’s what I think I remember you saying.

This Advent, I’m reminded that God is not like you and I.  Never too busy, never unfocused, He doesn’t forget to do whatever it is that He set out to accomplish.  He’s not slow in keeping His promises; even when you and I can’t even remember what they were.  He’s sure to make happen whatever He decides to make happen, irregardless if you participate or not.

The amazing thing is that He does remember US and invites us into the story.  The story He’s crafting, the scenes He’s directing, the melody He’s orchestrating…all available and open for us to be a part of, remembering that He’s the One who will bring it all to an eternity that will never end.

An eternity we’ll never forget…and that’s worth remembering…

Advent…December 7…promotion

“You did what?!”

I stared at my friend in total disbelief.  We’d known her for quite awhile and I couldn’t believe this was the first I was hearing of her SEO crime story.  (For those of you that don’t know, SEO stands for “search engine optimization”, a way to get websites seen with more hits and utilized for advertisements thus potentially bringing cash into your pocket with each ad clicked on your website.  No worries, few months ago I didn’t know what it was either.  Still kinda don’t.)

She looked at the floor and went on to say, “I owned a few websites and was driving internet traffic to the ads that were hosted on the sites.  Like the ads you see on certain sites for colleges and travel.  Totally legit.  It was decent money,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

“But then I got greedy.  I started looking at boats and big houses and thought I needed those things and this was the way to get em.  I figured out a way to promote myself and my sites.  So I put a plan in place to generate BIG money in a rather underhanded way.  I was illegally promoting my websites through fake keywords and videos and then paying other people around the globe to click on the advertisements.  When the ads were clicked, I got a certain percentage.  Sometimes pennies…sometimes dollars.  The promoting was working.  It started to ad up…the boats and big houses weren’t too far off…

…aaaaand then I got caught.  I’m basically banned from making money off Google…for life.”

Whoops.

…who, although He existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped, 7but emptied Himself, taking the form of a bond-servant, and being made in the likeness of men. 8Being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself… Philippians 2:6-8

Whether it’s illegally promoting a website for cash, jockeying for position in the checkout line, one-upping a rival sibling or consistently promoting self in conversation, we all have this desire to look better than we are, to be further along than we are…and often we’ll take whatever measures necessary to get the promotion we feel we deserve.  Even if it means a lifetime Google ban.

Contrast that with the arrival of God in human form.  He who was (and is) Lord of the Universe, arrived on the scene not with pomp, circumstance and regal sef-promotion.  No, the greatest act of self-DEMOTION was taking place in order that we, who were (and are) sinful by nature, might share in His coming Glory.

This Advent season I’m repenting and examining how to push against the cultural groundswell of self-promotion.  Facebook, Twitter, blogs and then like make this such a difficult journey.  I’m ashamed at the times I’ve tried to make myself look better, tried to promote ME in whatever ways necessary. Tried to be creative with an extra tag word (or 9) to generate increased blog traffic.  Tried to be controversial simply to be talked about.  Wanted to be first because I deserved it…even if it meant pushing Jesus outta the way to get there.

His DEMOTION for our PROMOTION.

So unGoogle-like…

Advent…December 6…belief

Tears formed in the corner of her beautiful eyes and began freely running down her pitiful little face.  This was NOT going well.  I wanted to hold her and kick myself in the groin at the same time.  The outdoor seating suddenly felt tight, claustrophobic.

My wife and I pleaded with her.  ”Baby girl, mommy and daddy are soooo sorry,” we lamented, shaking our heads, disgusted with ourselves.  My wife’s mascara started inching down her face like a muddy dirty raindrop, slowly, now picking up speed as the moment overwhelmed her emotions.

Then I started crying too, wishing it was just the natural effects of hot sauce at one of our favorite Indianapolis taco joints, Acapulco Joes, and not the horrible life-altering hammer blow we had just delivered upon our little girl.

“Baby…there is no Santa.”

Her oldest brother had known for years and had diligently guarded the revelation.  For him it was a logical conclusion.  No chimney, how does one guy, how the heck, etc, etc.  I appreciated his understanding of the sensitive nature of the situation and his ability to keep his yapper shut lo these many years.  (Although inwardly I sensed he liked being on the inside of something his sister didn’t know)

Our youngest boy?  Different story.  He found out and we asked him to just keep it to himself until we had a chance to speak to Lauren.  He then proceeded to relentlessly lord the “I know something you don’t know” routine until one day in the car, it “slipped.”

So there I sat dripping snot on shredded lettuce and a pile of chips, watching my baby’s innocence dissolve into tears and never-ending suspicion.  I think her mind had known for some time that there was no way any of it was possible but her little heart still clung desperately to the hope that it all might be true.  She wanted to believe and her I was killing it.  Nice job, Nathan.  Now everything changes.

When did it change for you?  Not necessarily the Santa gig, (sorry if this is the first you’re hearing of it:) but the crushing loss of some kind of belief?  I would imagine early childhood…some sooner than others based on your parents and what public school you attended.  Try and go back.  When did the logic start to overshadow the possibility?

“How will this be,” Mary asked the angel, “since I am a virgin?”³⁵ The angel answered, “The Holy Spirit will come on you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the holy one to be born will be called^[b] the Son of God.³⁶ Even Elizabeth your relative is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be unable to conceive is in her sixth month. ³⁷ For no word from God will ever fail.”³⁸ “I am the Lord’s servant,” Mary answered. “May your word to me be fulfilled.” Then the angel left her.

Luke 1:34-38

 

This Advent, I’m not asking you to believe in some elf-dwelling, north pole living, reindeer driving, overweight man who comes through your central air ducts once a year.  I do wonder though (see yesterday’s post) if we’ve fallen victim to a logic that has left out the possibility of belief, just so we never experience the hurt or embarrassment again.  Does past ridicule haunt forward progress?

God calls us into a  belief with heart AND mind; never separate but joined together, trusting that He can AND will do exceedingly abundantly above all that we could ask or imagine.  It’s not a fictional fairy-tale…it’s faith founded on His unchanging character.  And that’s worth believing in.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I finally have a chimney to clear.  Don’t wanna be responsible for impeding anyone in a red suit’s jolly progress this year…

Advent…December 5…wonder

Flashback…1983:

My little brother and I journeyed cautiously, carefully out of our bedroom, sweat beading on our adolescent brows and muscles straining with each intentional step.  Our movements were timed with harmonious precision; a secret choreography known only to those with a shared bloodline…and an experienced understanding of interior home navigation.

Feety pajamas avoided creaky floor-joists and young, bleary eyes strained into the early morning darkness.  Begin moving sliding pocket door now.  Whoa…what was that?  A slight stirring from the direction of our parents room caused a mid-step freeze…

…hold…breathe…control pulse…count….patience

Ahhh…false alarm.

I shot a nervous glance at my brother.  Sliding the pocket door enough to slip through, hearts now ringing in our ears, we could finally detect the faint glow of our objective.  Beyond the pocket door, the kitchen…then the dining room.  And beyond the dining room?  Pay dirt.  A space full of untold wonders.  What riches it must hold!  Longings fulfilled, fantasies realized, childhood dreams in physical form; all with potentially familiar names like Fisher-Price, Mattel and Hasbro.

It was now only mere steps to Canaan.  My anticipation growing, my excitement leaving a unique and slightly metallic taste in my mouth.  Had I bitten my own tongue?  No matter.  A mere flesh wound in light of the moment.  The epic culmination of each brussel sprout ingested, each smart aleck comeback unspoken, every slimy creature left outside, every generous inclusion of my little brother in our neighborhood sporting spectaculars…finally…it was all worth it.  I breathed deeply and smiled knowingly at my little brother, once a sworn enemy, now a welcome compadre on this day of days.  It t’was…

Christmas morning, 1983.

Present day:

I sit in the early morning glow of our Christmas tree in our beautiful downtown Indianapolis home, smiling at the memory.

Pondering the current reality.

The AT&T bill for service (or lack thereof) is slightly hidden by the Citizens Water bill; a statement I’m currently disputing because I don’t understand how our water bill could double exactly from last months with no noticeable increases on our end.  I’m continuing to pay what we’ve owed every month for the past 12 we’ve lived there.  Repeated phone calls aren’t helping.  No one can tell me why.  I may be paying them a “Ghost of Christmas-something” visit.

My historically jacked-out back, which has been fine, is hurting for the first time in months.  I’m grateful for the recent reprieve; more than slightly annoyed by the all-too-familiar pain.  Illusions of health.  Looking forward to shelling out some more cash for that non-insurance covered remedy of chiropractic.

The dogs keep eating the under-stuffing of the couch.  I stomp my feet and glare at them both with my “I’m gonna sell you to a Chinese restaurant” stare.  One of them lays down, the white stuffing sticking under his chin, proving his guilt.  The other just stares off in the distance because he’s blind.  Juvenile cataracts.  Serves him right.

We just spent an unexpected amount on a new car battery right before Christmas and speaking of cash, I’m online right now, currently looking at prices for flights to Manila for Tricia and I to finally pick up our adopted daughter.  On a date we don’t know about….yet…still…after 3 years.  Supposed to be sometime around the holidays.  Have you any idea of the cost of flights?  I’m flabbergasted.  I don’t want to buy the whole freakin airline…just a couple of seats.  Gheez.

For a child has been born—for us!
the gift of a son—for us!
He’ll take over
the running of the world.
His names will be: Amazing Counselor,
Strong God,
Eternal Father,
Prince of Wholeness Isaiah 9

It’s in that moment that I realize how far I’ve wandered from wonder.  So many of us have.  They call it “growing up.”  The child-like anticipation of Christmas has too often been replaced by the reality of adulthood.  How I’ve strayed from the breathless anticipation of the most beautiful gift of all–Emmanuel–God with us in the form of Jesus Christ!  How I’ve too often focused on the always changing circumstances and not the Ever-Living God!

In this Advent season, I pray for a restoration of the wonder and majesty of Christmas.  Not a shunning of responsibility but a returning to the possibilities of what might be under the proverbial tree.  If my parents knew how to give good gifts, how much more can God?  May we feel the awe and wonder of a God who would condescend to embryonic form just to be near us.  The freedom from the tyranny of this disappearing world.  The gift of eternity in Christ Jesus.  The magic of Christmas.

May we wander into wonder this Advent…

feety pajamas and all.

Advent…Dec 2…Waiting

My parents used to wield three cruel instruments of punishment: the bread board,  the egg-timer and the bench.  Even typing them makes me break out in cold sweats.

Various infractions against my parents rules and parameters (rules that I seemed to push against daily:) would result in either a spanking or a timeout on the dreaded bench of shame.  Spankings carried their own weight and hiney pain but the bench…oh, the isolation, the inability to be free.

The bench sat proudly in our kitchen/dining area, a nice piece of furniture and innocent enough to the uninformed passerby.  But it’s cruelty and shame were known all too well by the LaGrange 3.  My brothers and I spent many a waking moment riding that bench, pondering our incarcerated future and often plotting our revenge against the person or persons that got us into this.  (you didn’t think it was our own fault, right?)  All the while the minutes ticked by on the timer.

I wonder what the bench experience would have been like if we didn’t know how long we would be there?  I mean even at a young age, I could calculate the potential distance between 0 and whatever egg-timer number my sin had required, thus understanding some things carried more time on the bench than others.  I knew I could get up and resume my evil conniving in the very near future…just as soon as we hit zero.

But what if there was no egg timer; no idea of how long I would be in this condition?  What if I was just, just…waiting?

The Advent season has me reflecting on waiting.  We’re a go, go, go and do, do do culture and I’m as sucked into that vortex as you.  We wait for NOTHING, often pushing our agendas along just so we don’t have to feel the weight of the wait.  So many bad ideas have happened just because we didn’t want to wait.

But when I read the Old Testament I’m faced with a people who were waiting.  Waiting for someone to rescue them from the hardship, the prison, the bench if you will, of their own sin and shame.  They cried out with deep longings, tempted with temporal fixes for their present condition but ultimately waiting for something…somewhere…Someone.

This waiting honed them, knocked off the edges of their impatient character and prepared them for the gift that was to come.

¹ How long, LORD? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
² How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and day after day have sorrow in my heart?
How long will my enemy triumph over me?  Psalm 13:1,2

How good are you at waiting?  Not an egg-timer type of waiting but an “I have no idea how long this will take” type of waiting?

Think about how many things are in your house and life simply to lessen your wait time and increase your convenience.  I pray we are more aware of our inability to wait and that as we do in fact wait on God His love will enfold us no matter when or if our desires ever come to pass.

May the inconvenience of waiting refine us this Advent season and lead to a revelation of the promised gift of the Messiah…no egg-timer this time…