...beside the weary road

All ye, beneath life's crushing load, whose forms are bending low,

who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow,

look now! for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing;

O rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing.

---Edmund H. Sears, 1849

This unfamiliar verse of the very familiar carol "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear" has always drawn my soul. We all read our lives into the songs we sing, I think, and I read mine into this verse. I have felt that it speaks to anyone dealing with a chronic condition, toiling sometimes ‘with painful steps and slow'. This season, I feel it speaks to many, many of us, burdened with cares and sorrows beyond our comprehension. Who of us does not now and again feel crushed, stooped, weary of the pain of being human in a world full of humans?

But look! Ahead of us shine hours of ease and gladness, golden in their comfort. I know, I know…some who know me may be saying, right about now, that it is not like me to talk about ‘pie in the sky, by and by’, and you would be right. Stay with me. The genius in this verse, and in the grace offered us, is that the angels don't come like shiny aliens and whisk us away to a world where nothing matters anymore. No, the angels' song fills the skies over the weary road. Picture yourself, and me, all of us, laid out on the hoods of our cars, wrapped in fleece blankets against the winter chill; and there, because we happen to be travelers on this weary road, we hear angels. Because life has led us here, where we are, how we are, dealing with what we must, we hear the angels sing.

Wouldn't miss it for the world.

...into my brokenness

Jesus, the name that calms my fears, that bids my sorrows cease;

‘tis music in the sinner’s ears; ‘tis life and health and peace.

He speaks, and listening to His voice, new life the dead receive;

the mournful broken hearts rejoice, the humble poor believe.

---Charles Wesley, 1739

I don’t like admitting it. It doesn’t make me proud, isn’t the sort of admission that I’d want engraved on a plaque or cross-stitched on a pillow. But because I don’t like it doesn’t make it any less true: I’ve been battling the way of the world lately, and the world is winning. I mean, I am beat. If you are not seeing the scars, it must be because I’m dressing right. I am just weary and worn with the meanness that seems to be around every corner, waiting to pounce on the weak or unsuspecting. And the weariness feels cumulative and exponential, building on itself like a runaway snowball (children, remind me to tell you about ‘snowballs’ from the good old days).

In my weariness, it is so easy to forget. To forget to listen for the voice that is always whispering life into the stillness. To forget to listen for the presence that is always calling into the absence. To forget to listen for the joy that is always singing into the despair. To forget to listen for the voice of my brother Savior speaking wholeness into my brokenness.

But, oh. When I remember. The mournful, broken hearts rejoice…

In Equal Measure

God rest ye merry, gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay.
For Jesus Christ or Savior is 
Born upon this day
To save us all from Satan's power
When we are gone astray.
O, tidings of comfort and joy!

Into this world, into this mess, into what we've made of God's world, a Savior is born. Into our lives, our troubles, our aches and pains, our sorrows, a Savior is born. The joy and comfort come so close together sometimes, like two sides of a warm blanket, a refuge and an encouragement. Saving us from the full wrath of Satan's power (and you would have to be blind not to acknowledge there is darkness in our world right now), from our own dismay, there is a Savior, himself wrapped in the weakness of a newborn babe, wrapped perhaps in the same blanket of comfort and joy offered us.

Listen hard, and you may hear tidings of comfort, and of joy.