I read once that maybe the reason we love our dogs so much is because the only time they break your heart is when they no longer exist. I can’t unfeel that.

Perhaps the gift of grief is that we don’t have to choose it over every other good thing. We can feel despair and celebration simultaneously. Our hearts can be breaking while our feet are dancing.

I remember sitting down for an eye exam with a new ophthalmologist a few years back. He was walking me through the new patient questionnaire when he asked, “What’s your profession?” I said simply, “I’m a stay-at-home mom.” I expected him to be unimpressed. Most people are. But without looking up, he nodded and said, “Ah. So I’ll just write down, everything.”

For too long I assumed rooting had everything to do with where I was and how long I planned on staying, but this is not what “putting down roots” truly looks like. It’s not in the painting of walls or even in the establishment of a community. Those are not the things that ground us. Our sense of belonging in Christ, our firm establishment in His word and in His presence are what anchor us deep in the earth when the winds of change blow or the seasons alter.

I imagine God’s grace as liquid gold, seeping into every crevice, filling up every crack of our broken bowl, making beautiful scars from the evidence of pain. And when the gold sets our bowl is more durable than it was before it was broken. In Him, we are made whole again, stronger, and all the more valuable.

The insistence my house plants had on growing served as daily inspiration for me. If they can thrive in this place, I thought, so can I.

For the entire Advent season we’re in constant motion: wrapping, baking, cleaning, decorating, rushing, and DOING, all to get ready for Christmas. We’ve done all we can, on the outside at least. But what about on the inside? Have we prepared our hearts as much as our homes for Christmas?

Amid the disorder, Mary had the sense to stay present. She looked around at her situation and saw it all as valuable, a treasure to keep safely tucked away in the corners of her heart. Where I would have seen failed plans, Mary saw God’s faithfulness. I would have dwelled on the lack of cleanliness in the stable; Mary dwelled on the face of God. Where I would have seen a mess, Mary saw a miracle.

I’m heading into the holiday season well-caffeinated and ahead of the game. My Christmas shopping is completed, my holiday cards are addressed and stamped, and my house is decorated. This means things will hit the fan any second because the universe always wins.

It’s here, enveloped in such peace that He reminds us our thankfulness is the dream of the disappointed. Let’s turn our hearts in prayer toward those with less, toward those without hope, toward those who need the gift we’ve been so graciously given: the gift of Jesus Christ.

When we begin to value our children’s salvation over our idea of a successful devotional time, everything changes.

You were grieved for a bit because you didn’t want the night to end; you wanted to hold on to that feeling for just a while longer. But the afterglow is our bonus. It’s those brief but beautiful moments just after the sun has dipped below the horizon, when the sky is tinted with shades of orange and pink and the darkness of night has yet to take over.

To anyone who has felt unwelcome, unseen, or unloved, I will say to you what I should have said to Vanessa all those years ago: you can sit with me. To anyone who has been hurt or betrayed, plop your weary self right on down beside me. There is space for us both on this bench. Jesus offers you His hand. He assures you are worthy of love and respect. His loving kindness makes space for you even when the world does not.

The A’s I’d earned in previous classes proved what I was capable of. For me those A’s represented redemption. They were so much more than a grade; they were affirmation that my belief of the enemy’s biggest lies could be reclaimed for God’s glory. I failed many classes in my first attempt at pursuing my degree twenty-three years ago. For years the enemy told me it was because I wasn’t smart enough, disciplined enough, or motivated enough. I know now none of that was true.

I hug my kids and wave goodbye as they venture onto campus, and then I walk away. This is the moment that always gets me. Every. Single. Year. This is when the lump forms in my throat and salty tears swell in the corner of my eyes. This is when I remember the prayer my husband spoke over my children just minutes before. This is when I realize they are in God’s capable hands, and that they were His kids long before they were ever mine.

For a long time, I sat there squinting my eyes to see past the broken exterior and find remnants of the life that made this place so special. I envisioned the sidewalk chalk that used to cover the front steps and the toddler-sized water table that was a permanent fixture on the porch. I remembered my daughter’s giggles as she rolled a soccer ball down the steep incline of the driveway. I recalled the fragrance of the rose bushes as I made my way to the front door after a long day’s work. It was all still there. Every memory was still held safely in this now desolate plot of land.

Our feelings of inadequacy are merely manifestations of fear, and fear is the voice of the enemy. Fear tells us we can’t make a difference, that our past is too embarrassing, and that we are nowhere near ready. Fear tells us we’ll never measure up; there are plenty of people far better equipped to do the job. Fear tells us to remain a caterpillar. Love tells us there is a miraculous transformation ahead.

Those two little words, “under God,” are there to remind Americans that it is God who formed us before we formed this country for our independence. It is God who considers all we do before we consider the best interests of our citizens. It is God who promises to bless us when we make Him Lord instead of making lords of each other. How easily we forget.

I kept my eyes sealed shut for the duration of the ride, and when all was said and done, (a mere 95 seconds later), I wondered why I’d held out so long. There had been nothing to fear. Now I’ll hop on any roller coaster, so long as I’m prepared to have my equilibrium thrown off and my stomach churned for the remainder of the day, (everything changes in your forties). The day they make a roller coaster with seats allowing you to remain in the fetal position, I’ll be the first in line.

The escape hatch God provides is often hard to see when we’re settled comfortably in the darkness of our sins. It’s so much work to navigate our way through the tunnel and push open the door that will lead us to our rescue. By now we’ve spent so much time in the dark we’re kind of used to it. So instead of exerting ourselves, we sit back and relax. We allow the temptation to consume us. No one can see us here in the dark.