Snow Day

We had a white Christmas, my family and I. Not the kind you normally think of, though. We didn't skip through the snow while Christmas shopping or sit and watch the flakes drift lazily from the sky. It rather snuck up on us (though we had heard it was coming). It fell in the night, greeting us the next morning, blanketing the trees and the houses and the ground, until all were just lumpy, white silhouettes.

Snow usually does something for my soul.

A little over a year ago, I sat on my bed, home alone, and watched tiny snowflakes drift to the ground, and my heart was stilled. There weren't many flakes, and I knew it was too warm for them to survive their journey down, but something about those daring flakes refreshed my soul. I didn't quite know why. There really wasn't an explanation. I think perhaps it was the hope of a blanket of white. Perhaps the hope that all would be covered and clean. I had been living in an uneasy spell. The kind where I would rest my head at night feeling distant and disconnected. That day, the snow made me think. It helped me sort through myself. It refreshed me.

When I looked out my window the day after Christmas, I didn't feel the refreshing. I was rather disappointed. But it still made me think.

Why didn't I feel the refreshing? I still love it. I love trees layered in brown and white. I love seeing no roads or sidewalks or driveways, only white. I love the cars and trucks and vans all wearing icy caps.  I love the world so quite and still and pure, but I didn't feel the stillness inside. I didn't feel the blanket of peace covering my heart with a clean quilt of calm. I think because I'm in one of those uneasy spells. So I told God. I told Him I need quieting, stilling, purifying, and refreshing. I asked for snow on my heart.

Last night, rather late, I got a message from a friend who had soul questions. I was tired, but I stayed up to text her; I wanted to help. I had no idea that God was using her to speak to me. The problem she had was the uneasiness, the restlessness, the knowing that something isn't right between her and God. The things I told her were the things God was telling me that second, things that I needed to hear just as much as she.

I told her that she would ache for a while from the pain in the past, but eventually she needed to simply accept that as part of her story and move forward.

How hypocritical am I! I've had such a hard time stitching my past into my story. I fear I've been keeping it raw, dangling me in front of me throbbing and dripping with pain. My reason is rather silly. It' s not because I feel angry or bitter. It's because I want to hold onto the hurt. I want to hold onto it because I want to need people.

Ridiculous isn't it? That I should keeping ripping open my pain so I may keep on hurting. It makes no sense. But I want to need people. I want people to keep asking questions and keep offering comfort and keep caring. What if they leave as soon as I'm done hurting?

I don't feel that way about everyone. I have solid oak friendships that I know will remain no matter what happens. But there are a few frail ones, too. Some little seedling friendships that don't have strong roots. I'm so afraid they'll blow away at the first calm breeze.

It's all backwards, isn't it? Most people probably fear relationships will topple in a storm. I think I'm different because I so want to feel needed and wanted. I want to be special to people. I want to be someone to them only I could ever be.

I think that's why I've been uneasy. I think that's why the snow didn't calm my heart.
It's time to let go, Moriah.

How wonderful that the God who created the heavens and earth cares enough to make me restless until all between us is well!

He has come.

Christmas time is here. Happiness and cheer.
But to be perfectly honest, I haven't been very Christmas-cheery lately. I've been having a bit of trouble getting into the Christmas spirit.
I've tried to grow jolly. I've listened to music and gone to parties. I've eaten fudge and watched more Hallmark movies than should be legally permitted, but I still can't seem to make myself sing, "Christmas!"
A few nights ago, I watched "The Nativity Story" with my friends and was reminded of something I can hardly believe I forgot. My heart awakens at the thought of it, like an ember that glows as a result of a breeze. That night, my soul remembered:
Immanuel
How could I have forgotten?
Immanuel. The most beautiful word ever spoken, ever heard, ever written.
Immanuel. At the thought of it, my heart swells in my chest. At the sound of it, throats so dry from crying out are quenched. Eyes so wet from desperate tears are dried. Arms so weak from reaching and begging are lowered in relief.
Immanuel. He has come.
The image of the invisible God walked among us. God walked among us.  Sometimes I forget, but I don't think I will ever grow used to the idea of God among us.
The Word became flesh, and his flesh was just as frail as ours: susceptible to bruise and break and bleed.
The Creator dwelt as creation. The tongue that flung stars into galaxies could suddenly only coo and cry. The hands that inscribed stone with commands for thousands of generations could suddenly fit around a teenage girl's finger.
Immanuel. God with us. Not here for a visit; not just checking in. God dwelt with us.
I watched "The Hobbit" today, and strangely enough, it reminded me of Christmas. There was one scene, an inconsequential moment really, that grabbed my attention.
Bilbo Baggins dangled precariously from a cliff, sure to soon plunge to his untimely death. The dwarves clamored to rescue him, grasping at his hands, trying to get a grip to save their companion. Their efforts seemed in vain, until Thorin leapt from his position of safety on the ledge to the treacherous crags where Bilbo hung. The dwarf king jumped down from the cliff to reach the Hobbit. It was such a small moment in the movie that I'm not sure anyone else noticed. But in that moment, my insides stilled. I thought to myself, "That's my kind of king," and my heart remembered again: Immanuel.
How can I keep forgetting?!
I become so consumed with my own inconveniences and discomforts. I become so concerned with the cheer and home and happiness of Christmas, that I forget the only thing that really matters.
God with us. Immanuel.
Remarkable. I don't believe I can ever think of it without the still, calm wind rushing through me, stilling my soul, calming my heart, refocusing my mind.
This changes everything.
Hallelujah. He has come.