​I’ve borrowed a song from Maverick City Music to help with my own personal reflections today. They have a song, maybe you’ve heard of it 😊 - it’s called Fear is Not My Future.

In the song, the writers make four proclamations:

Fear is not my future, you are.
Sickness is not my story, you are.
Heartbreak’s not my home, you are.
Death is not the end, you are.

This morning, I want to reflect on the first proclamation; fear is not my future, you are.

I confess, for most of my life it’s been easier to sing those words in a song than declare them upon my life. For most of my life, fear HAS felt like my future.

In the bible it says we weren’t created with a spirit of fear. Yet, the whole world seems to be running around in a perpetual state of fear.

So, I have found myself wondering, if God didn’t create this fear I have felt, and so many continue to fear, who did?

We did. I know that, Jesus.

We did.

We did when we created relationships that have become emotionally and physically frightening to each other.

We did when we created mirrors that made us afraid of what we’d see when we looked in them.

We did when we adopted the pressures of the world as the pressures of our lives.

We did when we started celebrating Christmas while forgetting the promise that came with the baby in a feeding trough. The promise that no matter how insecure our present lives begin to feel, our futures are secure.

There’s another song. It’s called Fear is a Liar.

I think fear tries to tell us stories that make us so afraid of the future that we no longer desire the future. Tackling every day becomes a sense of obligation to living and not a longing to be alive.

Is that fear’s goal? To keep us alive so that it can keep telling us stories that make us wonder what the point of being alive even is?

I met a man once. He approached every day like life was a gift and not some chore life had ordered him to complete. I asked him one day; how do you do that? How do you show up to life each day looking like you’re happy to be here?

He asked me, do you really want to know?

I said yes. I do.

He told me Jesus.

Jesus.

He said he had a relationship with Jesus that brought him a peace that surpasses all understanding.

I’d like to say from that day on I have lived a life without fear. I’d like to say from that day on I have never let fear lie to me again. I’d like to say from that day on I started living life like it was an opportunity and not an endurance event that feels like it will never end.

I’d like to say all of that, but I can’t.

What I can say, though, is that I’m getting there.

I can say that more days than ever, when it feels difficult to connect with anyone, I imagine myself standing beside the manger and being connected to the one who creates an inviting place for all of us.

I can say that more days than ever, when I look in the mirror and find it difficult to face what I see, I see the smile of the baby in a manger, the reminder that only fear can tell me I am not enough for that mirror.

And that fear is a liar.

I can say that more days than ever, when the pressures of the world feel too heavy to bear, I imagine Jesus on the cross, bearing every weight and every pressure ever known to man, and absorbing them into himself so we can descend with them into his grave.

Only to rise as the forever reminder: fear is not our future.

A forever reminder that the baby in a manger was much more than a story we’ll read out loud to one another over the course of this month. Much more than the carols we’ll sing and the movies we will watch and the lights that will shine.

In a world built on fear – on lies – that baby in a manger, Jesus, is the truth, and he is the promise that makes life something to chase with the spirit of a newborn wanting to experience and know every single thing it can get its hands on.

With a peace that surpasses all understanding.

A fearless peace.

Because, Jesus, fear is not my future

You are.

May we all feel the peace of that reminder this Christmas season.

​The bible tells us that after Jesus was born, the Magi went to Jerusalem to worship him, for they had seen his star rise in the sky signifying his birth.

When King Herod heard this news, he had a secret meeting with the Magi. He instructed them to go find this baby Jesus and report back to him the baby's location. Herod felt threatened by the birth of this baby who had been prophesied to be the King of the Jews.

Knowing Jesus' location would make it easier for him to get rid of the threat.

The Magi did go. They did find Jesus, But in line with instructions they received in a dream, they never did report his location back to Herod.

The bible tells us that upon arriving to greet the baby Jesus:

On coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Then they opened their treasures and presented him with gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.

These gifts were of great significance.

GOLD symbolized kingship and Jesus’ divine royalty. Gold was a gift for a king, acknowledging Jesus as the King of Kings. FRANKINCENSE represented divinity and worship. Frankincense was used in temple rituals as a fragrant offering to God, highlighting Jesus’ role as the High Priest and the Son of God. And MYRRH foreshadowed suffering and death. Myrrh was commonly used for embalming, hinting at the sacrifice Jesus would make for humanity’s salvation.

It has me reflecting this morning, what are my offerings to the baby. What are my gold, frankincense and myrrh?

I think my writing is my gold. I believe my writing is an expression of the miraculous gift God has given me. A gift I use daily to honor Jesus as the King of Kings in my life, and in doing so, hopefully introduce others to who he is.

I think my faith and perseverance in trusting God through my life’s challenges are my frankincense. Whether through quiet moments of prayer, meditating on Scripture, or encouraging others to reflect on their own spiritual journeys, I try to create a fragrant offering to Jesus.

And my myrrh, my myrrh is the way I try to turn my personal pain into a source of healing for others. Through my reflections on divorce, fatherhood, childhood trauma, and mental health, I try to show others that even brokenness can become beautiful when offered to God.

More simply put, my gold shines through my creative gifts and wisdom. Frankincense rises in the worshipful way I try to live out my faith. And my myrrh is the way I try to offer my own scars as a source of healing and hope for others.

As we all follow the star the Bethlehem, I think it's helpful to think about our own gifts to the baby, our own gold, frankincense and myrrh. That baby in a manger is forever worthy of our gifts, and chances are we are all offering them, but maybe we don't take much time to reflect on them.

This Christmas is a good time to do that.

Reflect on our gifts to the baby.

And maybe in the reflection, become even more deeply committed to giving them.

​The boys and I watched Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer last night. It was the 60th anniversary of the television special, but the story itself was actually written back in 1939 by Robert L May.

May wrote it as an assignment for Montgomery Ward to give away to shoppers at Christmas time. He said he wrote the book because he was treated like Rudolph as a child.

Over 2 million copies were given away that first year.

Watching Rudolph last night, I found myself reflecting on the meaning of the story more than I ever had. (It had actually been years since I'd sat down and watched this classic Christmas special).

For years I think I lazily accepted this story as a tale about a bullied reindeer finding redemption by saving Christmas. Which is certainly part of the tale. But last night I found myself seeing this as a story of Christmas coming along to deliver redemption to us ALL.

Like it delivered Rudolph, born with that bright red nose. Like it delivered Hermey the Elf, who dreamed of being a dentist and not a toymaker. Like it delivered Yukon Cornelius, whose eccentricities made him feel like an outsider. Like it delivered the misfit toys, abandoned and forgotten. Like it delivered the Abominable snowman, a monster to everyone who encountered him. Like it delivered Santa, who couldn't see the value in everyone around him. Like it even delivered the other reindeers and elves, prone to judge and exclude others.

If you really look at this Christmas classic, the story isn't about Rudolph saving Christmas, it's about Christmas saving EVERYONE. For in the end, it was everyone seeing the value in themselves and each other that allowed them to see the true magic of Christmas.

Maybe that is what Christmas is still trying to do? Help us discover the true value in ourselves and each other.

It isn't lost on me that before that baby in a manger, the bible is full of misfit stories. In fact, that should be the title of the whole stinking collection of the pre-Jesus old testament.

Misfits.

But then that baby in a manger came to Bethlehem and announced, there is no longer such a thing as misfits. And as if that announcement wasn't enough, he climbed higher, up on a cross, and he screamed it with a nail pierced bloody shrill:

"THERE IS NO LONGER SUCH A THING AS MISFITS!!"

But did we hear him?

Did Christmas save us like it saved Rudolph?

The new testament suggests the message wasn't well heard after the cross; we still seem to live too frequently as such.

It begs the question, have we ever fully seen the real magic of Christmas as we continue to look for the misfitness in one another, as we continue to feel the guilt and shame of the misfitness we find in ourselves.

I found myself thinking after watching Rudolph last night, I think it's time for us all to write a new Rudolph story. Because like Robert L May, we have all been Rudolph. Or Hermey. Or the Abominable Snowman.

We have all felt a little misfit in ourselves; we have all seen and judged way too much misfit in one another.

But this new story isn't about us saving Christmas, it's about us letting Christmas save us. We have a classic Christmas story from nearly 100 years ago trying to lead the way. We have a God in heaven who came down to a manger in Bethlehem over 2000 years ago to lead the way.

Maybe it's time to write a story that doesn't barrel our bright red noses through the clouds to save Christmas, but one that sees the light that's already come through the clouds to save us?

The light called Christmas.

It's definitely something to ponder on my way to Bethlehem.

​“So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child.”

(Luke 2:4-5)

It makes it sounds so simple, doesn't it? Joseph and Mary were expecting a child and went to Bethlehem.

That hardly tells the story.

First, let's think about the physical challenges of this. Mary was VERY LATE in her pregnancy with this expected child. All mamas know all the discomforts that can come with that. (In ways we dads sure can't imagine!!).

And then this trip to Bethlehem was roughly 70-90 miles or rugged terrain depending on the route. So the physical challenge for Mary, likely alternating between walking and riding a donkey to find the most traveling comfort for a week or more, had to be excruciating at times.

I would never go so far as to compare Mary's pain to that of Jesus on the cross, but it's not lost on me the bookends of suffering that is the life of Christ.

Then there was also the spiritual aspect of it all. I mean, we all know how hard it gets to keep the faith when the physical tolls of life mount upon us. But Mary and Joseph believed they were carrying the son of God with them, the hope of the world, I can't imagine how much they had to trust God's promise along that journey.

Mental and emotional health challenges weren't invented in the 21st century. So just what were the emotions Mary and Joseph battled along the way - the crying, the confusion, the fears, the moments of just wanting to quit.

As a man I can't imagine how lost Joseph felt, having no idea what to do or to say to sooth his young bride.

To lead her in faith.

The birth of Christ is certainly miraculous, but there was no shortage of miracles on the way to that birth.

We sometimes miss that in our own lives, I think. The miracles happening along the way. We miss the truth that transformation doesn't happen when we arrive in Bethlehem, but indeed a lot of it happens on the way there.

Because transformation is miraculous.

I can't imagine arriving in the Bethlehem of my life, where I will encounter face to face the baby Jesus, without having experienced the miracles of that baby along the way.

I can't imagine arriving there without having experienced the transformation from self-destructive choices to choices that construct hope and healing in my life and in the lives of others.

I can't imagine arriving there without having experienced the transformation from being a man who never ever wanted a child to a dad whose life has been totally renewed through the love of and for his two sons.

I can't imagine arriving there without having experienced the transformation from a man totally lost in his own need for healing to a man totally on fire for bringing healing to the world.

This man - me - who will arrive in Bethlehem, is not the man who set out on this journey to get there. I've experienced many miracles along the way.

And many more, I trust, are on the way.

I can't imagine how much more beautiful it was for Mary and Joseph to hold that precious baby Jesus for the very first time after experiencing so many of his miracles on the way to holding him.

For those of us who believe we too will one day hold that baby in Bethlehem, it's worth recognizing the miracles we have experienced on our way there. What better way is there to experience the spirit of Christmas than acknowledging that long before we will hold that baby in a manger, he has been holding us?

We are heading for our chance to hold that baby. But don't let the destination blind you from the reality that today, that baby is already holding you.

We don't have to wait for Christmas.

“Being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”

(Philippians 1:6)

​Hospitals scare me. They always have. But when you're roaming the halls of one looking for your firstborn, the fear seems to subside. Or at least hides for just a bit.

So, I fearlessly followed the signs and arrows on the walls and through the halls.

NICU.

NICU.

Until I was there. NICU.

An older nurse recognized my wayward demeanor, as if not her first encounter with the wayward. My son is here, I told her. They flew him here from Morehead City. But I don't know where he is.

I know where he is, she assured me. And oh, by the way, she said, as if recognizing I needed an answer, that little baby is going to be just fine.

No more fear. Not subsided or hidden. Gone.

And there he was. I looked down at this child, my child in an incubator, no more than 12 hours old. His eyes wide open met mine. A feeling came over me that had never come over me before.

It has indeed never come over me again.

And as if a God was with me - a God I didn't know terribly well in that moment - a God who somehow recognized I needed answer: what is this feeling?

And as if a God was with me, there came an unknown voice. And it said, "this feeling you have in this moment, it is the feeling I have for you every second of your life."

I did not imagine that voice. I heard it. As if you who read this now would pick up a phone and call me and I would hear your voice, that is how I heard this voice.

That is why, when I read the following words on the way to Bethlehem, I know they are true.

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”

There are some who read that part of the Christmas story and maybe wonder, possibly even deny the feasibility of it, did those shepherds really hear the angel's voice?

I am not one who wonders.

Those shepherds heard it.

And the bible goes on to tell us:

When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.”

Can a voice really call out from on high, call us through hilly terrains, over rocky outcroppings, down hospital hallways, to find a baby?

A baby in an incubator.

A baby in a manger.

I am here to assure you that voice can. And does. And will.

But to who? Who does that voice call out to? Who gets to hear it?

The humble shepherds.

The wayward father.

ALL who are quietly lost in their own ways, yet holding onto even the slightest belief that there is a voice greater than our own.

A voice from on high, or from within, longing, pleading, needing for us to hear, this that you are feeling is the love I have for you every second of every day.

Not just some of you, but ALL of you.

I encourage you, on your way to Bethlehem, find a quiet field. A room. An empty chapel. Find your place and be still.

And listen for the angels on high. Because I promise you, they can be heard.

If we'll listen.

And believe.

Angels.

Oh sweet angels, I have heard on high.

​I was driving home from the mountains last night. As I was driving, I saw a house wrapped in Christmas lights on a distant hill. Lights that lit up that entire hill.

Those lights were a light to me from a great distance.

I am always deeply moved by the opening words of the bible. The words that say:

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.

I will confess, and if you follow me you already know this, there have been great periods of my life that have felt like that earliest earth - formless and empty, darkness hovering over the deepest parts of me.

A distant God hovering.

Somewhere?

But then the bible tells us: And God said, "Let there be light."

From the beginning, that has been one of the most beautiful things I have come to love about my God, his knowing just how much I need light in my life. From those first spoken words from my God, let there be light, has come the promise of a sunrise each and every day for thousands of years since.

God's forever promise, there will be light. A God no longer hovering, but entering. 

​My darkness. 

And as it began to appear that God's original declaration for light would not be enough, the prophets foretold of an even greater light.

Isaiah in predicting the birth of the coming Jesus said:

“Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord rises upon you. See, darkness covers the earth and thick darkness is over the peoples, but the Lord rises upon you and his glory appears over you. Nations will come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.”

Long before it came, Isaiah was telling us that light WOULD come. As if echoing God's first words, let there be light.

And then that light, as predicted, it came. And that light himself, the sweet baby Jesus, would tell us:

“I have come into the world as a light, so that no one who believes in me should stay in darkness.”

As if that baby in a manger, Jesus, would know me, would know and somehow feel my deepest and not so infrequent fear that I I am forever trapped in darkness.

Let there be light.

On our way to Bethlehem, as we see our Christmas lights along the way, it is helpful to see in them LIGHT.

Not just light, but THE light.

The light that was spoken into the world.

The light that was predicted as healing for the darkness that haunts each of us from time to time.

The light that DID come, a baby in a manger, to fulfill that prediction, to fulfill our deepest longings.

And then there is this. Maybe the most important part of this as we reflect on those lights up on that faraway hill. That baby in a manger would go on to tell us, commanded us:

“You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.”

God created light.

The prophets predicted an even greater light.

That greater light arrived; a baby in a manger.

And before that light left this earth, that light lit the lamps we were all holding and that we carry to this day.

The question is, as we stare at those lights wrapped around that house on a distant hill, do we put our light under a bowl, or on a stand, where we can all declare over the deepest darkness that lives in way too many of us the Christmas season:

Let there be light.

On the way to Bethlehem, enjoy the lights. They are magical. They are festive and celebrative. But they also hold much deeper meaning if we will allow ourselves to look for it.

Let there be light.

Christmas arrives. Christmas commands.

I checked into my hotel for work travels last night. There were several of us trying to check in at the same time. The young lady behind the counter seemed overwhelmed. She was doing her best to check in one, but I could see her anxiously monitoring the growing line behind that one.

I felt for her.

I wondered if that's what it was like for the innkeeper where Mary and Joseph were trying to check in to Bethlehem. Crowds were coming from all over to participate in the census. Many of them trying to check into the same inn as Mary and Joseph and the still unborn baby Jesus.

Was the innkeeper stressed? Was he exhausted from a long day of turning people away? Was the innkeeper giving everything she had just to keep up with the demands of all that was going on around her?

It's interesting. The bible doesn't talk to us about this inn, or even if there was an inn at all. The bible simply says:

"...and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them."

If you believe that God is the author of the bible, and I do, just as I believe God is the author of these words I write to you, then you wonder, why so closely to the words "she gave birth to her firstborn, a son (Jesus)" would God write into the story, "she placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them."

Why did we need to know there was no guest room available?

I wonder if it's because God knew a greater challenge to us than believing in this baby in a manger would be making room in our hearts to accept that baby. I wonder if God knew our world would one day grow so frantically fast-paced that even though we'd know there was a baby over there wrapped up in a manger, we'd be too busy tending to our inns to pay much notice.

It is the temptation of this Christmas season. It is actually the temptation of this life, to grow frantically too busy tending to the demands around us to openly consider the one whose only demand is that we allow him to love us.

To allow us to love him in return.

There is a Casting Crowns song: Make Room.

A section of that song says:

Mother holds the Promise tight
Every wrong will be made right
The road is straight
And the burden’s light
For in His hands
He holds tomorrow
Is there room in your heart
For God to write His story
You can come as you are
It may set you apart
When you make room in your heart
And trade your dreams for His glory

The young lady at the desk yesterday, she had no idea the stories living in the people in front of her wanting a room. The only story she knew was the one demanding that she keep up with the hectic life she was living.

I believe that is also true of the innkeeper. The innkeeper had no idea there was one waiting to check in who longed to write his story on that innkeeper's heart.

But us?

We know.

We know that story.

We know that Jesus is looking for a room. In our hearts. To write a story that will make our burdens light and our roads straight.

We know this.

But do we have room?

The baby Jesus comes on the other side of belief. The difference that baby makes in our lives comes on the other side of our choice to give him a room.

We are staring over the counter at this baby in a manger, who wants nothing more than a room in our heart.

Will we be too busy to notice?

And even if we do notice, do we have room?

It's maybe the most important question we can ask ourselves on the way to Bethlehem. It's maybe the most important question to ask no matter where we are going.

Do we have room?

​I spend a lot of time trying to 'get' God. Not get as in the acquisition of but as in the understanding of.

As in, what on earth are you up to here, God?

I confess I don't always get far with that, and the moment I feel like I am God shows us and says, no, Keith - that's not really it at all.

Silly me.

But there is one area I have spent a lot of time reflecting on, and at the risk of sounding arrogant, I really do think I get this part of God. A dear friend made a comment to my article yesterday that actually left me more sure of it than ever.

This thing I have wondered about is why a baby in a manger? This God who can walk on water, turn water into wine, give sight to the blind, and turn a few leftover bread crumbs into a feast that would feed thousands, why on earth when it came time to change his residency from heaven to earth would a God so powerful show up as a helpless little baby in a manger?

My friend said yesterday, "God can use the smallest and simplest things to change us. My first grandson will be here just after Christmas."

In her words, I could genuinely feel her anticipating the arrival of that sweet baby.

If you're a parent or a grandparent, or anyone who has been close to the pending birth of a child, you too could genuinely feel it. Is there any kind of anticipation more hopeful and more glorious than the arrival of a baby?

And then there is God - is there anyone more masterful at the use of anticipation.

For centuries the prophets foretold the arrival of this savior. And this savior then showed up in a way no one could have ever anticipated, and yet, at the same time, in a way that we can all fully understand and anticipate going forward.

Most of us can relate to this arrival of indescribable goodness in a baby because most of us have had some kind of experience with the arrival of indescribable goodness in a baby.

I get you, God.

And for a God who builds so much anticipation into our hope, what a beautiful way to lay the foundation.

What a way to build anticipation into the hope that Jesus will come again. Because we do look forward to him coming again.

What a way to build anticipation into our hope for eternal life. Because we do look forward to heaven.

And you know, even in the here and now, even in this often anxious season of the year, maybe that baby in the manger is supposed to remind us to reframe what we are anticipating.

I read recently this part of a definition of anxiousness: "Anxiousness is an emotional thief that robs us of today's peace in anticipation of tomorrow's problems."

Maybe we all take a step toward managing our anxiousness by changing what we anticipate?

In our march toward Bethlehem, I think we absolutely need to anticipate that baby in a manger. But maybe also this season we may want to anticipate healing in broken relationships, anticipate that we are fully known and loved, anticipate that rest is coming for our weary hearts. Because just as God has promised - and will deliver on once again this Christmas season - that sweet baby in a manger, he promises us all of those other comforts in life as well.

This Christmas season anticipate goodness. Anticipate it like the arrival of a newborn baby. When your mind wants to take you to anticipating the worst, redirect your mind to anticipate that baby.

Redirect it to anticipate hope.

The bible is full of reminders that what looked like doom could actually have been anticipated as hope. No one watching that baby in a manger die on a cross some thirty years later anticipated that baby would rise from the dead in a few days.

But they could have. They could have anticipated that.

Because God's promise always has been and always will be - goodness is on the way. And it is a promise that God always has and always will fulfill - even if not in compliance with our own timelines.

A baby in a manger. What a beautiful thing to look forward to.

A baby in a manger, what a beautiful way for God to ask us - what are you looking forward to?

I encourage you this Christmas season to look forward to the unimaginable. Look forward to repairs to things that look irreparable. Look forward to unexpected light in what has felt like forever darkness.

Because the reality is, that's exactly what that little baby in a manger has turned out to be.

Look forward to it.

​I have some very challenging childhood memories. But, I also have some that are beautiful and full of life and hope.

At the top of the list of the more beautiful memories are those of Christmases past. As I reflect on that this morning, I think it's possible I've spent a lot of my life trying to live again some of those Christmas seasons of yesterday. And maybe wrestled with some resentment in different ways for how long gone they are.

I don't know.

But in my mind the Christmas season always starts today, the first day of December. I don't know if that means it's the right day to put up a tree or hang lights or start sending out those cards, I just know as a kid something always felt magical about saying it's now December.

It's been a long time since it felt as magical as kid kind of magic, which often leaves me disappointed with December. It leaves me sometimes anxious for it to all be over.

It makes me miss Christmas. Miss it, as in where did it go? And MISS it, as in why did it have to go?

So this Christmas, I'm going to do what I do with these inner wrestlings of mine. I'm going to write. Each day I'll write something about this Christmas season that speaks to me all the way up to that glorious morning when Jesus first speaks to each of us.

A babe crying out from a manger.

I don't know what I want to come from these writings. Maybe it's as simple as me making sure that I don't miss the cry of that baby this year. And I think that will be enough.

But if along the way I draw some Christmas spirit into your life that will be great too. If this year you hear the cry that sings out from Bethlehem on Christmas morning as just a little more precious, then that's the greatest Christmas card I could ever send out.

And so this morning, as we begin this Christmas journey together, I can't help but wonder what Mary and Joseph felt as they began their journey together on the way to Bethlehem. Could they have even imagined that some two thousand years later, a man, wrestling with his own memories of what their journey would come to mean, would sit here writing about it?

About their child?

That the mere thought of that would bring him goosebumps and hints of tears?

And what in God's name - (pun intended) - were Mary and Joseph wrestling with on that first ever journey to Christmas? This young girl with a child to be born from no man she'd ever been with, and this man chosen to be father to a child that could not be explained outside the words of an angel.

Like really, and I'm wrestling with MY Christmas journey?

Yet, there they went. On the journey. And maybe that is part of this December First beginning of our own Christmas journey that should not be overlooked - yet there they went.

Because I am not the only one who wrestles with this season, who wrestles with demons of his past - whether they be Christmas demons or quite simply just nasty old demons.

And yet God, in his endless love for me, in his refusal to see my demons as even the slightest hint of a reflection of the me he created, created in my own manger scene, calls me toward the one he calls his son.

And can you feel this? Because you need to. All the way there, all the way from December First to Christmas Day, all the way from where you are to that manger in Bethlehem for your first glimpse of God's chosen child, God also chooses to call you and me his children.

There can be no better starting place on our own journey to Bethlehem. Feeling ourselves as God's chosen children on the way to receive God's only begotten son.

It is not enough to know that, we must feel it.

Because that is the feeling most worth carrying on our way there. On our way to Christmas.

Mary didn't choose to be the mother of Jesus. Joseph didn't choose to be his father. And you and I did not choose to have Jesus as our eternal brother. God chose that all FOR us.

Yet, without God, would we have ever chosen anything more beautiful and hopeful for our lives?

Is there a Christmas memory more meaningful?

I don't think so. I don't think there's a more beautiful memory with which to begin this 2024 Christmas journey.

Mary and Joseph, yet there they went.

You and me, yet here we go.

​I was in my little writing nook writing yesterday morning. I happened to look out the window and down at the parking lot and panicked when I saw my car lights were on.

I put on some shoes and rushed down the steps and out to my car, nearly tripping over myself as I did. As I gathered myself and approached the car, though, it became clear my lights weren't on at all. It was simply the way the sun was beating against the glass on the car lights that made them LOOK like they were on.

I was standing there lost in this case of mistaken identity when I heard a voice, Keith!

No, this can't be, as I am standing there in 40 degree temperatures in nothing but my pajama bottoms and a t-shirt and untied shoes, the only neighbor I know in the whole complex is out walking her dog?

(Both of which were quite bundled up, by the way.)

She didn't ask it, but her face did quite well enough. What are you doing out here, Keith - looking like THAT?

So I told her. I told her about the sun's magic trick. When I did, she didn't look at me like I was crazy. I found this to be quite accepting of her.

Maybe even forgiving.

When I got back up to my nook, I looked down again upon my car. The lights still looked on. High beams. But then I shifted positions and tried looking out from a different angle.

Poof, the lights went dim.

Our senses have a responsibility of looking out for us. They detect dangers and urgencies in our life allowing us to respond accordingly and move to less dangerous spaces. Since many of us have had to deal with dead batteries after leaving our car lights on all night, it's not hard to understand why my eyes perceived and felt what they saw as an urgency.

But here comes the tricky part - our senses are not always right. They sometimes alert us to urgencies that aren't urgencies at all. Had I taken just a moment, allowed myself the slightest shift in how I was looking at things, I would have picked up on that.

We are always capable of spotting the tricks.

It's hard, though, because we live in a world that can keep our senses quite active. We have no lack of things these days to see and hear and feel and touch and smell. And in this world, it's easy to become a slave to trying to respond to the instincts all of those senses are tapping into.

It feels urgent, so surely it must be.

No. No it is not always urgent. The lights are not always on just because they appear to be.

Sometimes it's helpful to slow down, shift positions, look at life a little differently, protect ourselves from falling into the trap of believing everything demanding our response is worthy of our response, and maybe even more, protect ourselves from missing out on the things that truly are worthy while we are falling into that trap.

Some of our greatest changes in life don't happen through big overhauls, they often come through the smallest of shifts, the shortest of stops.

Just short enough to discover the lights are not really on.