...like mothers do

The Lord is never far away, but through all grief distressing,

an ever-present help and stay, our peace and joy and blessing;

as with a mother’s tender hand he leads his own, his chosen band:

to God all praise and glory.

---Johann Jakob Schutz, 1675

The hardest place in the world to be. Is it stuck in a rip current? At the beginning of a final exam for which you have neglected to properly prepare? Sitting in the doctor’s office, where no one will meet your eye? At home watching the clock, waiting for a child out long past curfew, again?

In my experience, the hands-down hardest place in this world to be is alone. Almost anything I can think of can be faced down successfully with an ally beside you. And almost anything can seem insurmountable when you feel that you are facing it by yourself. Jesus himself seemed to understand the human craving for “with-ness”, for his promise recorded in John 14:18 is this: I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you.

In this text, hymnist Johann Schutz imagined God as ever-present and tenderly guiding as the mother of a toddler, continually offering a hand to steady, to guide, to reassure; never more than an instant away, so that the stresses and dangers of life, its hurts and heartaches, need not be faced alone, but in the loving presence of One who bore us and loves us fiercely. And tenderly. Like mothers do.

And won’t let us go it alone.

...created for together

O that with yonder sacred throng we at His feet may fall!

We’ll join the everlasting song, and crown Him Lord of all.

--Edward Perronet, 1779

I drove in that sort of half-mindless reverie that long sunsets and lonesome backroads inspire, far enough from the few small towns I passed through that I met few headlights or taillights. My NPR station crackled with enough static that the quirky voices of the show hosts teased me with nearly-full statements of great import. Then, all of a sudden and also at long last, I found myself on a long stretch of road, aimed at the dying-sun sky, with the held-breath world embracing me from either side of the road. And there, and then, I sat up. I took notice. I slowed my breath. I turned grateful eyes, heart toward the Creator of this exquisite moment.

Perhaps you have experienced those instants of solitary adoration also. They echo in the soul (and if I’m lucky, and prepared, my camera roll) far after the moment passes. And they are important. But they are not the only holy moments.

The moments when the pieces fit, and we match our voices to the lasting song, and to our beloved family—across the aisle, around the world—hold their own glory, and offer us a chance to join in a sort of worship we will never experience on our own.

Not because we are not good enough, alone. But because we are created for together.

...like mothers do

The Lord is never far away, but through all grief distressing,

An ever-present help and stay, our peace and joy and blessing;

As with a mother’s tender hand He leads His own, His chosen band:

to God all praise and glory.

---Johann Jakob Schutz, 1675

The hardest place in the world to be. Is it stuck in a rip current? At the beginning of a final exam for which you have neglected to properly prepare? Sitting in the doctor’s office and no one will meet your eye? At home watching the clock, waiting for a child out long past curfew, again?

In my experience, the hands-down hardest place in this world to be is alone. Almost anything I can think of can be faced down successfully with an ally beside you. And almost anything can seem insurmountable when you feel that you are facing it by yourself. Jesus himself seemed to understand the human craving for “with-ness”, for his promise recorded in John 14:18 is this: I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you.

In this text, hymnist Johann Schutz imagined God as ever-present and tenderly guiding as the mother of a toddler, continually offering a hand to steady, to guide, to reassure; never more than an instant away, so that the stresses and dangers of life, its hurts and heartaches, need not be faced alone, but in the loving presence of One who bore us and loves us fiercely. And tenderly. Like mothers do.

And won’t let us go it alone.

...tidings of comfort and joy

God rest you merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay,
for Jesus Christ our Saviour was born upon this day,
to save us all from Satan's power when we were gone astray:
O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy,
O tidings of comfort and joy.
---18th cent. English trad.

It was Christmas afternoon, and I had just bundled my teen and college kids off to spend it elsewhere for the first time ever. A remote chill emanated from every corner of every room as I wandered through in the early-gathering dusk. I hadn't bothered turning on the overhead lights. Usually, this would have added to the twinkle of the lights from the trees in several rooms, but this afternoon it only added to the gloom. I listened to analog clocks ticking the seconds away, the cardinal couple pecking on the window bird feeder outside the sunroom. I sat very still.

I had not overestimated my strength on this day; and, thanks to preplanning, providence, and the kind permission/invitation of a certain hospital chaplain, I didn't stay wrapped in that silent, shadowy place for long. I packed my guitar case and carol book, and made the drive on the mist-slick highway to the hospital, where I guarantee no one wants to be on Christmas Day. Well, except me; I needed to see if music could lighten any loads that day. I set up in the lobby, and began singing subdued carols --- In the Bleak Midwinter, The First Nowell, Still, Still, Still, Away in a Manger, What Child Is This. Folks, alone or in clusters, passed by, or stopped to listen; some stopped to sing along or request a song. "You know Silver Bells?" I had taken a basket of candy treats that were quite popular among young and old carolers alike that day.

I was preparing to pack up for the night when a family group of six or eight walked up. They were holding hands; some had been weeping. They asked if I was finished; I said of course not. They shared that they had just lost their loved one within the hour; could they request a Christmas carol to sing together? That would be wonderful, I replied. They huddled up to confer, wanting to choose just the right song. "I guess Jingle Bells would be just about perfect," said the eldest male in the family group.  "Jingle Bells? Jingle Bells?" I thought to myself. I quickly flipped away from Silent Night, my odds-on favorite for a comforting carol, and we started.

And there, in the sparsely-populated lobby of a Christmas night hospital, while the mist turned to a rare, magical December snow outside, a group of hurting people mourned. And healed. With Jingle Bells.

O tidings of comfort. And joy.