Christmas Past

It is wired into us perhaps to believe that we are made from fine stuff. Though we are dust we imagine that it was stardust and not sawdust or dirt-dust. And we who can trace our lineage back to the God of the universe have cause to believe that we originated from nobility. Yet, on earth we know this is not true. Few of us can point back in our ancestry to the landed gentry or a royal family or a blueblood birth. We are lamentably common and therefore our joys in life are simple, lacking the fuss and frill perhaps of those who are born to the silver spoon. And it bears out then that our festive celebrations are characterized by homey pleasures. There is little in our homes or on our tables that would compare with the lavish festooned halls and elaborately prepared meals of the rich and beautiful people. Yet, to us, our platters and puddings are delicious and our strings of lights and bounteous trees are a delight. We care not that the recipes lack gourmet spices or that the ornaments are irregularly placed and somewhat garish in their reference to tourism and hobbies and children’s amateur artistry. We refuse to see the ordinary and instead see the wonder and richness of a holiday spent with the familiar and the beloved. And we insist in our heart of hearts, if ever we stop to think of it, that there must be in this scene a bit of glamour after all. For anything close to the heart bears great value.

And so I can conjure up even now the scenes from Christmases long ago which, in my memory, are bright with the meaning of the season. Much of my childhood was spent in ministry as my family was an itinerant evangelistic team and lived many weeks out of the year “on the road.” It must have been challenging and at times even difficult for my parents and grandparents, but to me, in a child’s way of seeing things, it was a delightful mix of adventure and normality. Many of the warm memories of my past are bound up in these travels. And of course Christmas was part of that past.

There was the year when our travels took my family in early fall to a small hamlet in Tennessee where we pulled up our campers into the church yard alongside a fence. The pastor’s name was Hood and his daughter, happily named Robin (as in Robin Hood ), was older than me and could have been annoyed at the hero-worship of a middle-schooler. But she wasn’t and invited me into her world, introducing me to the “new” author, Janette Oke, and fixing me hot chocolate with marshmallows while we clandestinely listened to Christmas music way ahead of the season, and even invited my perusal of her shopping purchases (I remember a purse and maybe some shoes.) It was still the autumn season and I can recall country roads with leaves, but the hot chocolate and the music had awakened the seed of Christmas already in the fertile soil of my young imagination.

As the days grew chilly and misty and the calendar pages keep turning, the evangelistic slate took my family in November to a wee metropolis in Arkansas by the name of DeWitt. There we held revival services by night and by day made pilgrimages to the local discount market, thanks to the shopping affinity held by my grandmother. This store, appropriately named Magic Mart for it held all sorts of astounding treasures, was a labyrinth of adventure for children and a lot of fun for my grandmother as well. And as it was the beginning of the retail holiday push, there was added to the trips the thrill of Christmas that once beat in the pulse of every kid my age. For us, in those days, Christmas was not a day of opening gift cards for shopping on Amazon or of pilfering through piles of technological gadgets; rather, Christmas was a journey through toy catalogs and real Christmas trees and wrapping gifts and making sugar cookies. It was the time of year when mother made us wait until the day after Thanksgiving to play our treasured Christmas albums and tapes. It was something in the air that you wanted to reach out and grab and hug to yourself.

And in this spirit, our family acquired, through the generous graces of my grandmother and the ample stock of Magic Mart, a lighted ceramic Christmas tree. My mother, though staunch in her resolve not to desecrate the spirit of thankfulness and Pilgrims, somehow allowed us to take it out of the box and set it up in all its illuminated glory on a small dresser in the camper. This then became the centerpiece of our imaginations and joys. My brother and I were effervescent in our satisfaction; it was the most beautiful piece of décor in our world. And it represented all the hope and love and peace that we associated with Christmas. We were a family who claimed Christ as Savior, who recognized the greatest Gift, who had been blessed by grace. And so, hung with every wreath and wrapped with every bow, was the knowledge of the Baby, the Source of every good thing.  But we did not think such thoughts at the time. All we knew, in our childish understanding, was that we were loved and cared for by our parents, that we had a very exciting life of travel (though home-school was a bit tedious) and that Christmas was on the way and we had a ceramic tree with which to celebrate. Providing the sounds for this euphoric time was an 8-track tape that we were permitted to sneak in before the “after Thanksgiving” rule. The “Songs of Christmas” played over and over on the player my father had installed in our camper. It was a compilation of various artists and groups singing gospel Christmas songs and for that reason, a bit more permissible this early in the season than traditional carols. Even today, I am instantly back in that moment of my childhood when I hear one of those songs (and yes, I have a copy now on CD). I don’t remember much else about that saga in Arkansas in that small town; the store and the tree encapsulate almost the totality of my remembrance. But it is a good thing, and a favorite image on the screen of my mind.

I remember the next town where we traveled, Nadi, Arkansas, where my family was given chickens to butcher (which didn’t go so well, either in the butchering or the eating), and I spent Sunday afternoon with a new friend, and we jumped on her trampoline and then left early for service where I listened to the rehearsal for the upcoming Christmas program. This was the time my little brother got the chicken pox, and I, who had already had this childhood disease, instead contracted the shingles. My mother nursed me through it. When homemade remedies didn’t work and I couldn’t sleep, my parents prayed and the Father, who loves children and understands everything about them including their Christmas joy, eased the itching and burning and put me to sleep.

We did make it back home before Christmas, of course. Home was a few wooded lots in the countryside middle Tennessee. And there more excitement awaited us as we watched Mama bring down the hallowed boxes from the attic and adorn our little place with favorite decorations – the cardboard Christmas village we had helped to assemble, the “bubble lights” on the tree and the familiar greenery and bows. Outside, Daddy would put up the Christmas carolers and nativity scene that he had made from  a kit and that was part of the visual celebration of our holiday. There would be my parents’ annual shopping trip to Nashville to the mall (when they told us they were going to visit Santa Claus and we didn’t tell them we knew that was their euphemism for buying us gifts) and there would be the Christmas program at the country church and all the hurry and scurry of the season. And then would come the night when we would gather at my grandparents’ house across the road to eat some holiday sweets and open gifts (though usually we would have to wait as my grandma finished her gift wrapping). Together with our cousins, we would spread across the floor in our routine places and wait while my uncle and my father passed out the gifts. Then when there was only empty space under the tree, the “go” would be given and we would tear into the presents, oohing and ahhing and comparing and rejoicing. It was a grand time.  And then there was stockings on Christmas morning (in the familiar crocheted stockings) and Christmas dinner again at the grandparents and hovering over it all the security of knowing that Jesus’ birth was the focal point of all this joy and that He was the bond that held our family tight (and still does).

These are a few of the scenes that color the kaleidoscope of my Christmas past. None of them is significant on a grand scale and none of them is really important to anybody else, but they are part of my Christmas past and I would not trade them for memories of lavish banquets in the courts of royalty.  Dickens knew, as did his character Bob Cratchit, that it is not the wealth of the celebrants, but what they are celebrating and with whom they are celebrating that makes all the difference. And so, as I keep Christmas this year, I build upon the things of old, keeping room in my heart for memories yet to come and for the Christ who is the Reason for them all.Pas 

A Story for Thanksgiving (guest post)

Here's a bit of fiction that my daughter wrote for her high school composition class. 

I thought I'd share it with you.  Enjoy!

A Teddy Bear Thanksgiving

- Autumn Quesenberry

“Noah, honey, how many times does Mommy have to answer your question?”

Four-year-old Noah peered up at his mom with a sheepish look. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

 “It’s okay, sweetheart.  We’re going to Colorado to spend Thanksgiving with Grandma and Grandpa. Did you bring Mr. Ted with you?”

“Yep, he’s ri-i-g-g-h-h-t here.” Noah stretched out his small frame to reach the teddy bear which had been carelessly tossed into the vehicle before its departure.  “I think he needs a new bow. Do you think Grandma could make one?”

Looking back at her little boy with tousled brown hair, Tiffany saw his troubled expression. “Yes, I think Grandma would be happy to help.”

Seemingly content with her answer, Noah settled back into his booster seat and proceeded to tell Mr. Ted how big the mountains in Colorado actually are. Trees whizzed by the window as the evening turned to night, and heat blasted from the vents on the floor to counter the forty degree temperatures outside. Christmas music played softly in the background, filling the cozy Jeep Liberty with a sense of peace. Tiffany turned her attention to her husband who was driving their vehicle down the highway. “I can’t wait to see Mom. She must have made at least three pumpkin pies by now, and who knows how many apple pies she’s going to make.”

Damien flashed a quick grin. “Yeah, and as I remember, her turkey is the absolute bomb. Hey, Tiff, can you get the GPS back out? I need to get gas, and this traffic is so thick that I’m not sure we’ll make it.”

“Sure thing, where’d you put it?”

“In the glove box. Now why did I let your brother convince me to try this new route?”

“Because you were curious.  Ah, here it is!” Rescuing the GPS from its long forgotten residence, Tiffany punched in their location. “There’s a Shell station about fifteen miles from here. We need to make a right at the next light.”

“Okay, thanks,” he said with a sigh. “Do we have any of that puppy chow left? I’m starved.”

“Yeah, I think it’s in the back. Noah, will you give me the puppy chow, please?”

Noah roused from his explanation to Mr. Ted. “Here, Mommy.”

“Thanks, honey.” After taking a handful for herself, she held it out to Damien. He reached for the bag, but it fell between his feet in front of the pedals. Distracted, he bent down to pick it up, taking his eyes off the road for a moment. Without warning, a car horn loudly sounded followed immediately by a crash into the driver’s side. Noah’s frightened screams filled the air. Glass shattered, seat belts retracted, and the air bags deployed, then the sound of sirens floated through the chilly November night as paramedics flooded the scene.  Before she lost consciousness, Tiffany looked up to see a firefighter pulling her son’s body out the back window.

She groggily awakened. The overpowering smell of disinfectant permeated the room, while the heart monitors beeped with a cicada-like rhythm.

“Good morning, sleepy head.” A voice spoke from the corner chair, and Tiffany soon realized that it was Damien’s.

“What happened? Where am I?”

“We had an accident. You’re at the hospital just outside of the Colorado state border. The doctor says that you have a mild concussion along with some scrapes and bruises.”

Terror suddenly gripped Tiffany’s heart. “Where’s Noah?”

“That’s what I need to talk to you about. The car that hit us rammed the side of the Jeep where Noah was sitting.” Tears filled Damien’s eyes, and his voice caught. “He’s got serious internal bleeding. The doctor called in the surgeon; they’ve got to perform surgery right away.”

Tiffany’s body shook with uncontrollable sobs. “My poor baby. How could this happen?”

A still silence followed her question. Damien’s head dropped into his hands, and Tiffany couldn’t bear to see her husband in such a deflated state.  She looked to the window, unable to understand how her world had shattered in merely hours. Before she lost all restraints on her emotions, she choked out the words, “When are they going to take him back?”

Damien walked over to her with a look of tenderness. “He’s already in surgery. Has been for the past thirty minutes.”

“Oh, no! No, no, no.” She murmured to herself.

 “I can’t lose him, Tiff. I just can’t.”

“I know, honey.  I can’t either.”

 “Your mom called a few minutes ago. She said to tell you that she and Dad are praying for us.”

A lapse once again entered the conversation. Damien tried to find a way to fill it, but he didn’t have anything else to offer. “I’m going to go to the hospital chapel. I need some time alone.”

Shuffling out the door, Damien made his way down the hall. He should have told her the rest of it. It wasn’t right to keep this kind of news from her, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It didn’t make sense. How could his insurance company, the one he worked for, not pay for Noah’s hospital bills? How was that even possible?

 His mind reeled with all of the many potential reasons, but the harsh atmosphere of the hospital hallway didn’t help his concentration any. People bustled by on their way to spend time with family members on the eve of Thanksgiving. Doctors, medical charts in hand, rushed around to see patients, and a couple of nurses shared a light moment at the desk. Despite the cheerfulness surrounding him, Damien continued to plod through the sea of people. He knew that he looked ghostly white, but he didn’t care at the moment. He just had to get to the chapel.

Reaching the door, he stuck out his hand and twisted the knob. He wasn’t even through the doorway when he saw a man in his late fifties sitting in the second row, silently praying. He considered walking back out, but since he didn’t know where he would go, he quietly trudged down the short aisle and knelt in front of the large cross displayed on the front wall. He felt his body collapse into a heap onto the floor as it shook with the release of the raw emotional pain gnawing at his soul. Broken, he begged God to spare his son’s life.

“ ‘Scuse me, son. Can I help you pray about something?”

Damien stopped praying for a moment and looked up to see that the man had come to kneel beside him. His graying brown hair fell atop peaceful, compassionate eyes, and his voice was calm. Damien didn’t know what to say. “Sir?”

 “I said, can I help you pray about something?”

“Oh, I don’t want to burden you with my problems.”

The man didn’t seem to be offended but instead gave a gentle reply. “Well, now as I recall the Bible says to bear one another’s burdens and so fulfill the law of Christ. My name’s Peter, and I really would like to help you pray if you’ll let me.”

Damien couldn’t explain it, but he felt that he could trust Peter fully, so he shared everything that had happened within the last two days. He told of his plans for Thanksgiving, the accident, and the unexpected trip to the hospital. At the end, he even shared that his insurance company was not going to pay for the hospital bills for some reason and that he had no idea where he was going to get the money.

After he finished, Damien looked over to see Peter’s eyes filling with tears. He didn’t understand why this man, whom he had never met, would take time not only to pray with him but for him as well. Before Damien could thank him, Peter interrupted his thoughts. “Last night I saw a terrible car accident while going home from the store. I didn’t know those involved, but I heard that the victims had been brought here. This morning when I got up I felt the Spirit of God telling me to come to the chapel this morning to pray for those who were injured and from what you’ve just told me I guess that would be your family.”

Peter reached into the bag he had by his side and pulled out a mud-caked teddy bear. “I found this by the side of the road this morning where the accident was. Does this belong to someone in your family?”

Damien reached for the teddy bear with a watery smile on his face. “Yes, yes it does. My four-year-old will be so happy to see him.” Frowning, he realized what he had said and added, “That is if he gets out of surgery okay.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you,” Peter said. “God can heal with but a single word. And as to your hospital bills? Every year I set aside some money to give to charities and other Christian organizations, and oddly enough I met you the day before I normally send the checks. I don’t think that God would mind if I gave this year’s money to you for your family. In fact, I think He had the idea in the first place.”

The two men rose from their places on the ground, when a knock sounded on the door. A tall nurse with a broad smile lingered in the doorway. “Mr. Jakes, your son’s surgery was successful. He’s in his room.”

Damien felt a joy that was unlike any he had ever known. He practically leapt towards the doorway, but not before ensuring that Peter would come visit Noah soon.

The amount of gratitude Damien felt was indescribable, and as he walked down the hallway towards Noah’s room, he couldn’t help but smile at the teddy bear firm within his grasp. 

the reason

"The Marriage License"  - Norman Rockwell, Saturday Evening Post Cover, June 11, 1955

Not because it's historic tradition.

Not because it's aesthetically pleasing.

Not because it's personally preferred.

Not because it's socially convenient.

But because it's the design of the Creator.

But from the beginning of the creation, God ‘made them male and female.' 
‘For this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife,
 and the two shall become one flesh’; so then they are no longer two, but one flesh.  
Mark 10:6-8, NKJV

What If It Is my Son?

I’m wondering:

Do Christian movie makers have sons?

If they do, do they want them to watch their movies with pure thoughts? Do they care if the women characters sometimes display as much sex appeal as they do God-appeal?

My daughters and I recently watched a Christian-themed production that I’m not sure I want my son to see. Yes, he is an adolescent and just learning how to fight this battle that all good men must, but should I let him sit with me and knowingly put something before him that will steer his thoughts in a direction I am trying to help him overcome?

I don’t like to be critical. I like to be positive. As a writer, I want to applaud the artistic efforts being put forth to make these Christian-themed movies. And as a Christian, I want to support the lifting up of righteous viewpoints in the Hollywood realm. I don’t want to be an angry conservative. I don’t think Jesus was. I don’t want to be known as the woman who is always “riding a hobby horse” about dress, as they used to say.  But I can’t “not” say something about this. This is about the men in my life and I care about that.

And somewhere a woman needs to raise her voice and say to this new Christian movie industry “This isn’t okay; you need to clean this up just a bit more. You can’t mix sex appeal with Christ appeal.”

Maybe they don’t think it is sex appeal. Maybe it’s unintentional; maybe it hasn’t even entered their minds. Maybe to them it’s just the way women dress today. But, if they’re men, and many movie directors are, then they can’t be totally unaware.

Maybe it is the wardrobe personnel, which tends to be women, who push the line with the clothing used on the set. After all, let’s be honest. It is somewhat difficult to find trendy, attractive clothing that is also not sensually appealing.  Maybe these women think nothing of this since most of us tend not to be fully aware of the power of our bodies and of how little it takes to push a man’s impulses to the temptation zone.

Perhaps it is simply that these directors, men or women, are so accustomed to working in a field where total onscreen nudity is accepted and rampant sensuality is flaunted that “tame” immodesty doesn’t even register on their alarm status.

But tell me, does the degree of sex appeal matter if the outcome is the same? If a man is enticed to lust by a short skirt, does it matter that she isn’t bare to the waist?  Does the large transgression mean that the smaller one isn’t significant?

Perhaps it is my environment that makes me more conscious of this matter. Are men from “conservative” environments more aware of low necklines, high hemlines and tight contours than men in environments where this is the norm? In other words, can one become immune to a certain kind of stimulus? Or are men everywhere, of every ethnicity and background, every social and intellectual status, affected the same way by the power of female beauty and the degree to which it is uncovered before them? Men readers, I really would like to hear your voices here.

If they are, then we need to quit playing games.

Ultimately, this is the destiny of souls we are talking about.

Yes, it’s that serious.

There probably isn’t a man breathing who hasn’t given in to the temptation to lust at some time.  And yes, God knows the onslaught of hormonal and visual tides men must brave every day. And yes, He forgives and offers grace. And no, women are not responsible for a man’s unbridled appetites.

But. . . .

What if it is my son who is learning to overcome manly temptations and you are the one who wore the short skirt?

What if it is my husband who has to spend several minutes focusing on Scripture and taking his thoughts captive and you are the one whose camisole wasn’t high enough to conceal cleavage that should be your husband’s personal privilege?

Is it okay for you to throw your body in the way of my men’s spiritual progress?

Is it all right for you to make them figuratively cover their eyes and still try to relate to you as a sister in Christ?

Is it all right for you to be an enticer?

If my husband is on a diet, is it okay for me to bake his favorite dessert and put it on a plate in front of him? No. So is it okay for you to display your body and thus invite him to sin? I think not.

True, the action will be his choice, but do you care so little about me and my marriage that you are determined to exercise your “right” to wear whatever you want and let everybody else deal with it?  If a man discards his diet and eats cake, it is not necessarily sin; but if he discards his integrity and surveys you, it most certainly is sin.

If sexual lust is a universal temptation, then every Christian, regardless of gender or spiritual maturity, denomination or theological classification, wants to triumph over it through Christ. Therefore, considerations of dress are not an issue of “conservative” or “liberal” but totally within the realm of what enables all of us to advance in Christlikeness. Oh, how I wish that we could return to the rightness of the premise of this discussion and not be distracted by the ecclesiastical politics which always surround it.

Will the whole world read these words and suddenly agree to help us all on to greater godliness? No, but I hope those of us who call ourselves by His name will care deeply about glorifying Gods in our bodies which belong to Him. Ultimately, this matter of avoiding sensuality in dress is for Christians to discuss and model before a pagan world. They must come to Christ first and foremost; He will deal with the surrounding issues. But often the problem is that after sinners in our culture come to Christ, they are not prompted to think differently in this area because many of us look the same as they do, many Christian women give less thought than they should to the sex appeal they are (maybe innocently) displaying.  So these baby Christians read God’s Word and see it through the template of the older Christians they know and therefore think little should be changed.

This should not be.

My husband says “If my faith is not changing me, it is not saving me.” New life in Christ always promotes change in me. As I am conformed to His image, I am doing all I can to let Him be seen in me. And that is difficult to accomplish if my body is prominently displayed in appealing ways.

I don’t have the answers. But He does. If we put aside our peevishness and seek His counsel, He will show us. If we have honest discussions with the men in our lives, they will tell us those things that they are acutely aware of in our dress that we think nothing of.  If we sincerely set our hearts to know and follow Christ and support our brothers and sisters in His family, then we can help each other on to that great city where we will see Him and enjoy Him forever. That is the goal of all this, right? 

Considering Thyself. . . .

Touching this topic with any length pole is crazy, but that's what we writers do - launch out into shark-infested waters. I know what I say will be controversial to everyone and probably offensive to some. So, like a coward, I will post this disclaimer: read at your own risk. But maybe I can offer a word of hope, a reminder that not every foundation is shaken. 

First, please note that the only one who "wins" in the trauma caused by sin is Satan. He is the gleeful one who delights in the terror, the horror, the agony, the scandal, degradation, the evil, the dishonor, the despair. Surveying the broken remains of lives and the shattered shards of human emotions, he is delighted to have wrought pain on the ones created in God's image. His sadistic nature gorges on the cycle of temptation - sin - consequences - calamity. He is the Enemy, the one who hopes to gain from the grief of so many. 

Now, I am not qualified to speak on the subject of abuse, either from experience or from education. But I am a woman, and I have daughters. I can't imagine the dark pain that would explode into me had I experienced this or if I discovered my daughters had. The anger, the violation would be too deep to handle on my own, and I am sure the residual emotions would seep into every corner of my psyche and probably always be there to some degree. That's what that kind of trauma does. It damages, permanently.

And, I am not qualified to speak on the topic of child-rearing; my own are not yet raised. But I have teens who have been raised in a Christian environment, and yet, who make their own choices and who sometimes do the wrong thing. I can't imagine the crushing pain of a revelation of wrongdoing by my child on this kind of scale. The horror, the panic, the rage, the hurt would be too much for me to handle on my own, and I am sure that the resulting distrust and uncertainty would hang around in our relationship for a long time. That's what sin does. It has consequences. 

So, the only thing I am qualified to speak on is . . . grace. Because I've experienced it. Because I've built my life on it and dedicated myself to the ministry of it. Because I've trusted my eternal destiny to it's power. Because I have faith that Jesus' words are true.

Grace is from God, and it is for all - the violated and the violator. It doesn't diminish the wrong, but it doesn't forsake the repentant. It doesn't remove the consequences, but it doesn't close the door on hope. It is justice; it is forgiveness. It is healing; it is restoration. This is what we believe the Bible teaches - there is no situation too messy, no violation too horrible and no wound too painful for Him. 

 Does this mean it's easy, with no consequences? No, but it does mean that we, as people of God, know that there is always hope, always a way back to wholeness, both for those who sin and for those who are sinned against. Our God doesn't deal in disposables or recyclables; He is in the business of redemption.

And grace teaches me that I am to be about restoration - reaching out to everyone involved, the damaged and the dysfunctional, the victim and the perpetrator. And I reach out considering myself,  says Galatians 6:1. 

Considering myself as a human being, subject to temptation and with shame in my past.
Considering myself as a person who can be exploited by others and suffer deep pain.
Considering myself as a parent, with all the emotions and struggles entailed.
Considering myself as a member of the Body of Christ who is called to "weep with those who weep." (Romans 12:15)
Considering myself as a Christian who has been given grace and who must extend that grace to others.

Extending grace is not hiding or denying or glossing over or ignoring. Christians are grace-receivers; we know that redemption cost a dear price - God's very own Son. We would never agree that grace is cheap. We know that sin exacts a terrible penalty, and there is always suffering involved. But the good news of the Gospel tells us that God's grace is sufficient for even the darkest sin, the deepest pain. If we don't believe that, then grace is not true and our religion is vain, a fatal deception, an unreliable prop with which to face eternity.

It was Betsie ten Boom who, after suffering the horrors of a Nazi camp, said to her sister Corrie, "There is no pit so deep that He is not deeper still."

We know that sin has infected every part of our human expression, and that it lies in wait for each of us. So, when sin is discovered among us, we do not give up hope, we do not ignore the pain of the victims (as did the religious leaders in the parable of the Good Samaritan), we do not throw up our hands and declare the situation too awful to be fixed.  We do not condemn others who have tried to right their wrongs, we do not pretend to know what the hurting have experienced, we do not assume that we have the answer. We extend grace. And grace guides us to discernment and compassion and mercy, it leads us to restitution and due process and rehabilitation. Grace is the antidote for sin and its consequences. This is not a "pat" answer.  This is what we as Christians have consecrated our lives to. And it is in the hard times when we prove whether our testimonies have any validity, whether our beliefs can work in real life situations. Do we believe in "amazing grace" that really changes and saves  "a wretch like me?" Do we believe that that grace can lead us "through many dangers, toils and snares" and take us "safely home?" And do we believe that that grace can work in the lives of our brothers and sisters in Christ and deliver them and heal them? This is our hour to prove that Christianity is not a farce, that it works both for those who abuse and for those who have been abused. This is the moment when we react with a different agenda than the culture. This is the time when we remember that God's grace is the only way any of us can deal with our tragedies, and with our shame.

Galatians 6:2 commands us to bear other's burdens. This is also the mission of grace, and it probably goes beyond saying "I'm sorry" and moving on. It may require sacrifice and a willingness to embrace the pain of others. It may demand a loss of innocence and an acceptance of difficult truths or inconvenient realizations. It might require commitment to shouldering the grief of another and helping to carry their terrible load. But this is what Jesus calls us to; it is what He did for us. 

 We need to be the burden-bearers and the grace-extenders. To those carrying painful memories, may we enter into their suffering as much as we can, listening, caring, praying and walking with them toward healing. To those bearing terrible guilt, may we offer the mercy that we would wish to receive if it were us or one of our children.  And may we always remember that we have been and continue to be grace-receivers. Let grace, God's grace, be our first word and our last word, our rallying cry and our hymn of comfort, our hope and our sure foundation. For while other words may falter and other efforts fail, grace, the redemptive gift of God, will never lose it's power.