quiet arrivals
God arrives quietly. In times of greatest need and in our day-today living, God slips through the door unannounced, ready to bear witness to the world’s fullness—suffering, rejoicing, living, dying, coming and going—and to offer grace, here and now.
When our own noise is too boisterous and our attention is fixed on the crescendos of triumph and tragedy, we miss God’s entrance altogether. Advent calls our attention back to the ordinary, almost inaudible moments when the triune God draws near in broken bread, washed feet, sprouting seeds, and whispered grace.
In this Advent season, we turn to quietness as a gift and an invitation, a humble prelude to God’s arrival.
Come, Lord Jesus. While we are waiting, come. While we are loving, come. Find us keeping awake— one act of love at a time.
November 30
Matthew 24.42
42Keep awake, therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.
Begin anywhere. It’s on a card someone gave me. I kept it because somewhere in those two words and a period is grace I need. Keep awake. Another two-word instruction but no trace of grace here. What happened to Jesus saying: come to me and I will give you rest, or peace be with you?
The command is to stay alert for Christ’s return. It’s not that Jesus needs a welcome reception on the ready. Our keeping awake isn’t so that we don’t miss Christ’s coming. The command is to take care of one another well. In the verses that follow, Jesus tells a story about a servant entrusted with the care of all the servants in the household. If the owner returns at an unexpected time and finds that people were not given food and protection, the servant will be exposed as a counterfeit. Ouch.
Let it be that we who are watching for the light of God to soften our path, look up from our own steps and see the neighbors Jesus told us to love as ourselves. And while we are at it, why not try some of the other instructions Jesus left for his followers to do:
Forgive one another.
Feed my sheep.
Pray in secret.
Let your light shine.
Begin anywhere, knowing that the one who commanded us to love one another may show up at any time.
December
1
Genesis 1.2
2 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.
My eyes began to droop as the comfort of a warm summer day enveloped me while laying on the lawn outside the Tate Modern Art Museum in London. Looking up in my sleepy state, a light breeze shook the tops of the trees. I could hear the clamoring footsteps of the countless tourists walking by, their indistinguishable voices in a variety of languages mixing into the hustle and bustle of pounding feet. A street performer incited joyous laughter from onlooking children and in the distance, the wake of the river Thames lapped against the shore while boat horns rung out from passing ships. As I staved off sleep, this cacophony of sounds began to merge into a melody for me.
I was spending the summer in London to complete my capstone internship for seminary. The experience had turned into a rather lonely one as I grappled with being away from home, ongoing mental health issues, and the dread-filled question that all graduates must answer at some point: “what’s next?” Amidst it all, I found myself on that summer day feeling especially at peace. I felt connected to the wider world around me. I was a part of this international chorus, a note in the melody of people coming and going on the journey of life. Gratitude and joy filled my soul in a time when either seemed hard to come by. “The Spirit of God was hovering over [me],” and in that beautiful moment, I remembered to take notice.
Oh God who hovers over all of us, remind me of your presence. I confess: far too often, I forget you are there with me in all of life. Help me to notice you. Amen.
December 2
Psalm 46.10–11
10Be still, and know that I am God! I am exalted among the nations; I am exalted in the earth. 11The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge.
Earlier this year, I read Kevin Fedarko’s beautiful book about his trek through the Grand Canyon, A Walk in the Park . His writing is so immersive that I almost felt like I was there, in the wilderness with only the sounds of running water, lizards, and birds. He recalls “a silence so pure and clean, flecked with starlight and chilled by currents of cold autumn air, that it seemed to form its own river, spilling down from the faces of the cliffs, flooding the pockets of shallow ground, pooling and deepening until the entire plateau was bathed in a hush that seemed to charge the senses, quicken the conscience, and settle the mind all at once.”
I wanted to be there, or somewhere like that; that’s where God would be, that’s where peace would be. My life felt impossibly loud—my kids are loud (really loud), the news is loud, my thoughts are loud. Everybody always needs something. I thought, when will I ever get to hike through the Grand Canyon? One night, toddler finally asleep and room still, I felt her warm breath and cheeks and it felt like that quiet Fedarko had described. She, too, is a wonder of the world.
God, help me feel your presence in the loud and quiet moments and realize the presence of these everyday wonders. Amen.
December 3
Mark 4.38–40
38But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion, and they woke him up and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” 39And waking up, he rebuked the wind and said to the sea, “Be silent! Be still!” Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. 40He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?
Stillness. Silence. Oh, how great it would be to just slow down for even a minute. My mind wanders and rushes around. How can I improve at slowing down? How can I speed this up? I try to refocus but begin to think about errands, work, and other stressors of life. I have a strong pull toward being busy, even in my rest.
If only I could be like a calm ocean—allowing thoughts to pass through me without resistance. But the harder I try, the harder it is to be still. Emotions and thoughts are neither good nor bad; they simply are. I’m learning to exist without labeling everything on my mind.
The other day, our new cat was napping in my lap. I realized I was tensing my shoulders while he was completely relaxed. This reminded me to take a deep breath, slow down, and just be. Through our cat, God reminds me that stillness is sacred, that rest isn’t laziness.
God is often found in those still, quiet moments. As I was preparing for this reflection, I realized I needed to slow down in order to even think clearly, to hear that quiet guidance. Just like Jesus asleep in the storm, sometimes rest is best. God is always in control, quietly working behind the scenes, even in chaos. When I finally stop fighting the storm in my own mind, I realize God is never absent, only waiting for me to be still enough to notice.
God, help me to slow down and find peace in stillness. Remind me that you are in control, even in the tumultuous storms of life. Teach me to release my need for control and trust in your quiet guidance. Help me to rest, to let go, and simply be. Amen.
December
4
Psalm 139.4–5,7
4Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord, you know it
Lee and Dan had been good friends since the 80’s. Dan was Lee’s Best Man in our wedding. We frequently spent Sundays watching Cowboys games together—Dan was an enthusiastic supporter. Dan loved Halloween, so we dressed up and attended his annual party even though we found it difficult to produce unique costume ideas. About six years ago, we lost touch. We exchanged occasional “let’s get together soon” phone calls but nothing came to be.
Last summer, Lee felt a nudge to reach out to Dan. He called and left a message. Almost immediately, Dan sent Lee a text: he and his wife had moved to Waxahachie and Dan was extremely sick. He had lost over a hundred pounds in the six months and was having difficulty breathing, making it impossible for him to talk on the phone. Lee was disappointed that he was not up to having company. They began a long conversation, exchanging messages and catching up on life, naming fears and prayers, wondering about God together. One morning, Lee texted Dan with no response. His wife called to let us know he had died overnight. At his memorial service, another friend told Lee how much it meant to Dan to hear from him. Lee’s kindness and love, sent by God, comforted Dan during his last days.
When we are sad, afraid, and lonely, not sure what to do or what to say or where to go next, God is always quietly with us, wrapping us up in loving arms. Listen carefully for God’s still small voice and pay close attention. God knows everything that is in our hearts and will never let us go. During this Advent season, may we all feel God’s presence and remember his grace is our eternal gift.
God, help us focus on love, peace, hope and joy as we prepare for the coming of Christ. Give us the ability to be a light for others and to listen as you quietly speak to our hearts. May we live a life of gratitude and remember each day is a gift. Amen.
Bountiful Creator, suffering Son, renewing Spirit, establish the work of our hands.
December
5
Isaiah 40.3–5
3A voice cries out:
“In the wilderness prepare the way of the LORD; make straight in the desert a highway for our God.
4Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain.
5Then the glory of the LORD shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together, for the mouth of the LORD has spoken.”
Twenty hands were far more than was necessary.
Hands swollen from lifelong disease. Hands of pastors and musicians, of brothers, uncles. Hands that held newborns, hands soft with naivety. Hands the color of walnut, cedar, ebony. Hands calloused from factory jobs and farm labor. All quietly gripped my grandmother’s rain-spotted casket as we lowered her into the ground.
It was unspoken: we knew this would be last time we’d all be together. After years of Christmas dinners cut short by our own tempers, we were a family estranged—broken by politics and theology, race, economic disparity, and the unrelenting paranoia that consumes rural Appalachia.
But this day, our hands were our covenant, our movement a common prayer. Rain beaded on the rose petals, and grace slipped between the cracks of our splintered lives.
In the end, there were no sending songs, no fanfares or triumphant choruses, but the sounds of hushed voices crying out to one another in the wilderness—united in death, a family resurrected; in darkness, a great light.
December 6
Luke 1.11–13
11Then there appeared to him an angel of the Lord, standing at the right side of the altar of incense. 12When Zechariah saw him, he was terrified, and fear overwhelmed him. 13But the angel said to him, “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you will name him John.
Poor Zechariah. He probably didn’t know what hit him: first he was overcome with terror and in the next instant he was filled with joy—his prayers for a child were answered. Judging from the way he responded to Gabriel standing beside the altar, Zechariah had likely never seen an angel. With majestic wings, surrounded by a warm glow, encircled by the wafting fragrance from the altar incense, what could be more impressive than this angel? Yet there was Zechariah, petrified and speechless.
And do I ever know the feelings Zechariah had at that moment! No, I wasn’t blessed with the presence of an angel, but I was struck with fear as I waited in the maternity ward for our first child to be born. My thoughts were racing despite having spent the last nine months convincing myself that fatherhood would come naturally. All my confidence was vanishing by the minute as I waited for my first views of the tiny child who would be wholly dependent on my wife and me.
Would I be a good provider? Would I avoid the parenting mistakes I had witnessed? Would I be willing to give up parts of my life for him? The questions and doubt continued to pile up until the moment I saw the one for whom I was now responsible. Then, in an instant, all my fears and questions completely vanished, totally replaced by a joy I had never thought possible. God’s presence filled the delivery room that morning, just as God’s presence continues to be a guiding light for the world we live in today.
Gracious God, how quickly our fears can turn into cascading love and unbounded joy. Keep us open to all that is possible on this path we travel together, practicing compassion and understanding in a world so desperately in need of both. Amen.
December
7
Matthew 3.11
11I baptize you with water for repentance, but the one who is coming after me is more powerful than I, and I am not worthy to carry his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.
Shoes are missing, someone is thirsty, and a baby is crying for a reason he’s not yet able to communicate. The sun will set in thirty minutes, and I’ve promised we can go to the park before bed. When we make it out the door, I’m hauling a heavy three-year-old with one kid pedaling ahead and another running barefoot down the pavement. My wife follows with the baby.
We reach the scraggly grass of a football field and I take a small kite out my pocket. As I unwrap the string, a brief argument ensues about who will get to hold which end. Two work together to prop it into the air, while another eagerly holds the handle about 10 yards down.
“Ready… go!” I yell as he takes off down the field, not looking back. The kite struggles to maintain air, only hovering about as high as I can reach above the ground.
“Faster!” the kids yell, when suddenly a gust catches the kite like a sail as it zips into the sky. We all look up to see its flag-adorned tail flittering in the wind against the canvas of a pink Texas sunset. I rest my hands in denim pockets and watch my children dance wildly with the kite in the turbulent breeze. There are no more shoes to find or places to be. The wind hasn’t slowed, but for a moment it has allowed us to float along and remember that we too are being held.
When life submerges us
Your Spirit meet us with fire beneath the waves
To burn away the noise
And reveal that a sacred moment Does not need to be a still one Amen.
December 8
John 8.6–9
4Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground. 7When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” 8And once again he bent down and wrote on the ground. 9When they heard it, they went away, one by one, beginning with the elders, and Jesus was left alone with the woman standing before him.
Who are you to judge? Are we without sin?
There are so many words that move beyond judgment: forgiveness, amends, grace, mercy, compassion, acceptance, healing, truth, kindness.
I had not seen or heard from an old friend in over 30 years. One phone call and we were sobbing, making amends and suddenly freed from the guilt and pain.
The next day I wrote this:
I had a daydream. We were walking on a wooded trail, holding hands. No words were spoken. We were peaceful. After walking for what seemed like forever, you disappeared. I was still holding on and smiling, grateful for your invisible presence.
Now I realize I was walking with God.
God,
You have given us grace. You have been there through our darkness and light.
God we admit we have sinned. We have been guilty of throwing stones.
Please open our hearts so we may embody your grace. May we let go of judgment, and recognize our own sin. Let us offer the grace you have given us.
Let me experience moments of pure silence, so I am willing to let you in and hear you clearly.
You are the one who will never leave me. When others abandon, disappoint or pass away, you fill us with love and compassion and the strength to go forward no matter what the challenge.
In Jesus Christ we pray. Amen.
There is a kind of strength that doesn’t roar. It doesn’t push or strive or demand. It waits.
But waiting is hard.
When I was pregnant with our daughter, I was placed on a strict extended bed rest. The goal was to give our tiny baby girl the best chance to grow and thrive, free from stress. But the instructions were daunting—not just physical rest, but mental stillness. I was told to keep my mind calm, to avoid stress, to keep my heart rate and blood pressure low.
It felt like being told to lie still and wait for something terrible to happen. No defenses. No interventions. Just me, the bed, and God. At first, I was terrified. I felt helpless. I felt like I was already failing at my first job as a mother—unable to protect or act, only able to wait. My prayers were constant, but they felt small. Was this really all I had? No miracle drug? No treatment plan?
But slowly, through the fear and frustration, I began to feel something shift. I stopped fighting the stillness. I stopped trying to control what I couldn’t. And in that surrender, I found rest—not just physical, but spiritual. I wasn’t alone. I was waiting with God.
I began to wait in expectation, not dread. I felt God’s presence wrap around me like a calm embrace, lifting the weight I had been carrying. I realized that this wasn’t weakness—it was trust. And in that trust, I found strength.
Lord, teach me to be still. When I want to rush ahead, remind me that your timing is perfect. When I grow weary in the waiting, strengthen my heart. Help me to trust that you are working, even in the silence. Let my rest be in you, and may my strength be found in quiet confidence. Amen.
December 10
Genesis 28.15–16
15Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go and will bring you back to this land, for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.” 16Then Jacob woke from his sleep and said, “Surely the Lord is in this place–and I did not know it!”
This passage takes me back to when I was a teenager, probably 16 or 17, and sitting one evening on a side porch at my parents’ house. I had been raised in the church but had been wrestling for some time about what it meant to give my life over to God. I remember no words being spoken to God as I sat on the steps that evening. I just remember what I guess you would call a heaving of my spirit over to God. Some may call it a born-again experience. I don’t really care what you call it. I just know that when I arose from those steps, I knew something had transpired and that I experienced a deep inner peace as I went to sleep and arose the next morning. That’s why I love this scripture. Like Jacob, I awoke and came to the realization that God was in that place, and I did not know it.
Of course, moments like that don’t happen often. And they are not one-and-done deals. My journey with God has gone through several transformations over time, and I imagine it will continue doing so. But in that moment and in that place, God was there, directing me into a deeper relationship with Him.
O Lord, keep bringing us back to your land. Transform us into your likeness as you do, And help us realize that surely you are in this place, even when we don’t realize it. Amen.
December
11
1 Kings 19.11–13
11He said, “Go out and stand on the mountain before the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.” Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind, and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake, 12and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire, and after the fire a sound of sheer silence. 13When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. Then there came a voice to him that said, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”
I watch the man on TV and all his angry friends in a room full of people, shouting. They are so loud, They aren’t making sense. They can’t acknowledge the ways they have hurt others. They can’t feel the pain of the people who suffer because of their decisions. They don’t see the ways their actions hurt, ruin, tear apart. They are so loud.
I wonder what would happen if they were quiet for a while. What happens when I’m quiet for a while?
When I’m silent I notice the ways their face winces when they say that name.
When I’m silent I hear clearly the pain their voice when they tell me they lost their job, lost their partner, lost their confidence, lost their joy.
When I’m silent I hear the water trickle down the stream and the deer drinking. I don’t notice these things when it’s loud. When I’m loud.
When it’s quiet I’m not distracted by the noise on the TV, the noise from my opinionated family member, the noise of the construction, or even the noise in my head. When it’s quiet the space around me expands. More room to listen. More room to love. More room to do. More room to grow.
The quieter I am, the better I can really listen. The more deeply I can feel their pain and celebrate their wins. The quieter I am, the more I realize that my empathy, love, and passion for justice don’t come from the noise on the TV. They come from the things that I notice in the quiet.
Like Elijah, I can get so accustomed to the chaos that I don’t expect to encounter the God in the quiet. But every time I take a moment to ignore the fear, chaos, and noise, I realize I am surrounded by the divine.
Thank you God for your faithfulness in illuminating pain, hope, despair, joy, and love in the midst of the chaos. Use the quiet to make me more like you: more loving, more just, more helpful, more compassionate. Amen.
December 12
Luke 24.30–31
30When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. 31Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him, and he vanished from their sight.
Green ribbons adorn broad oak trees all around our neighborhood. One of our own was lost in the Guadalupe River floodwaters, a camper who days before might have dreamed and danced and skipped along the sidewalks in view of my front windows. Now, news of death and despair met my hungry eyes as I sat on the couch and scrolled endlessly, devouring local and global horrors with an appetite for lament. All while my dreaming, dancing toddler nodded off to sleep a room away.
And then, in a burst of color and noise, a band of neighborhood kids tore through the yard shrieking with laughter. Makeshift capes caught the breeze as small hands waved leafy branches through the dusk air, singing in tune with humming cicadas. These were the classmates, pewmates, teammates of the lost one; didn’t they know something terrible had happened?
Still, their feet met the sun-warmed pavement, running alongside one another uninhibited even by the cruelty of death. Their gathered voices pierced the soft summer sadness, refusing to abide by the adult standards for grieving, overwhelming my silent solemnity with something like possibility.
I considered summoning anger at their uninvited, ostentatious presence in my yard, and yet their love for this moment, their embodied joy despite the circumstances called my bluff. Here was something heartier for me to eat, bread—blessed and broken—to nourish my anxious heart and satisfy my churning stomach. Here, as the sun slipped golden below the horizon, a fleeting feast, a divine recognition.
In the stillness between thought and word, In the grief too weighty to name, In the creak of the door ajar, Come in, God. Draw near. Amen.
December 13
Matthew 13:31–32
31He put before them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in his field; 32it is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches.”
Some fifty years ago, our science teacher introduced our fifth grade class to an innovation called a cyclotron, the “Atom Buster.” This was a machine that accelerated particles in a chamber so fast that one particle would be flung out and hit another particle and break it apart, releasing energy and making new material. I still think of it as one marble being used to strike another marble and shattering it. Oh, the simplicity of the fifth-grade mind.
We had not seen the cyclotron and still we knew it was fantastic; we accepted it and believed it to be true. In later days we saw films confirming what we, with childlike wonder, embraced.
The season of Advent strikes a reminder within us that as big as the world is, all the things that we see are built upon small things. Small things can hold big energy, and when this energy is released, it can change things. In Advent we see the release of more faith, hope and love than at any other time. It is as though better angels emerge from among humanity, like a high-speed particle that collides with the human heart. Unthinkable good radiates: good that transforms ashes of ruins into portraits of beauty. Oil of joy saturates the tears of loss so that the face shines again, and heavy burdens are lifted by whimsical divine dances of praise.
We wonder: how can these things be? Christ teaches that his kingdom is built on small things, faith like a mustard seed. When broken open in human hearts, this seed releases energy that makes all things possible. This seed will always grow where it is allowed to. From a seed to a shrub, a shrub to a tree, a tree to a cross with branches sufficient enough that those who have the escape ability of flight are drawn by the irresistible grace of rest. This is Christ’s kingdom.
God of the small things, give us faith like a mustard seed and quiet courage to do your will in the world. Amen.
December 14
Matthew 11.2–3
2When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples 3and said to him, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?”
Sometimes I can sense God arriving silently in the midst of noise: meal service at the Bridge, spirited singing of the children’s choir, passionate conversation in planning meetings to help immigrant families, constant pings of Signal notifications from volunteers at immigration court, anguished cries of detainees seized by ICE, chants of groups of protestors. I know God was silently present during an impassioned description of families struggling under the threat of deportation and the pause to translate the conversation to English.
Underneath the din, there’s something quiet and calming, a white noise. There’s inspiration that comes seemingly out of thin air, there’s a strength and sense of hope, there’s a feeling of solidarity. There’s something that takes our breath away or brings a tear to our eyes.
During the Lord’s prayer, if you focus on the sound of the unison words uttered by those around you, you can sense something holy and united.
God is there in causes that bring us together, among people who just show up, and when there are too many volunteers. We may seek solitude and quiet to find God, but God is there in the good chaos we create together.
Dear God,
May we recognize your quiet presence, even when there is so much noise that we can hardly concentrate. Help us to recognize that it is you. Help us join with others to make holy noise and share your love. Thank you for the gift of the noise we make together. Amen.
December 15
Matthew 4:18–20
18As he walked by the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea—for they were fishers. 19And he said to them, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of people.” 20Immediately they left their nets and followed him.
Dim lighting, ambient music, cool air. Wavering kelp, elaborate coral, vast pools. Scuttling crabs, grinning sharks, slumbering sea otters. And fish. Many, many fish.
In the midst of it all, I found myself in fellowship with three strangers—a family I’d met only an hour earlier at a church service in a part of California we both were visiting. I was traveling alone, and they had an extra seat at their table (literally. It was a postchurch lunch, specifically, where we met). I’d known so very little about them, and them about me, yet I willingly got in their car to drive with them to the aquarium because, well, I love aquariums. And I really love people.
This was six years ago now. I no longer remember their names or what we spoke about. I have only a single photo, one that we asked a fifth stranger to take of us. We didn’t think about exchanging contact information, or social media handles. We didn’t think about anything except getting to know each other, sharing pieces of our lives and our dreams, our hopes for the future.
In the hustle and bustle of a busy aquarium on a Sunday afternoon, I found peace. I found the joy that comes in taking a chance, reaching out, and making a friend. In drawing people near. In casting your net, and seeing what happens. There amongst the fish, I found God.
Great God, we cast our prayers to you. When the sea is calm, and when it is not, may we continue to use our voice. Hear the words we lift to you amidst the waves. Amen.
December 16
Psalm 23.1–3
1The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. 2He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; 3he restores my soul.
There were only two of us in the room. As Jim lay in his hospice bed, a quite morphine drip trying to relieve his ragged breathing, I sat quietly in the chair by his bed, praying for God’s mercy to ease his transition to heaven. The only noise in the room was his uneven breathing.
I had gently touched his face and spoken to him when I arrived early that morning, and the slight change in his breathing let me know that he knew I was there. I thought of the phrase, “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, He leadeth me beside the still waters, He restoreth my soul.” (KJV) yes, it is true—God is always with us. Many times, Jim and I had spoken of dying and neither of us feared that event. At the same time, neither of us wanted to leave the other. But the reality was that one probably would precede the other in death.
How often since that morning I have given thanks for the overflowing blessings of love, mercy, peace and silence, even in the presence of great sadness. Yes, we can trust that our Lord is ALWAYS with us. Even in the most challenging moments, he comforts our soul. Goodness and mercy will follow us all the days of our lives. We are blessed in this life–and we will be in the next.
Be still–take a deep breath–allow yourself to know God is with you.
God, our Lord and Savior, we give you thanks for the gifts of love, peace, silence, and the privilege of knowing your Word is always with us. Give us the words to offer peace and comfort to others that we can be with you now, and after death. Amen.
December 17
John 1.14
14And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory of a father’s only son full of grace and truth.
After completing college, I confronted an uncertain future. With a low draft number in hand, I was facing induction. Rather than delay the inevitable I volunteered for the draft. During the time before reporting for duty, I seriously examined my life and prayed for God’s grace to guide me in the coming days.
On Saturday, May 11, 1970, which was a month into basic training, my battalion was called to attention. Coincidentally this was the same day as my college commencement. Our commander informed us that the battalion next to ours was called up in the middle of the night and sent to Cambodia. They were only four weeks out of basic training. We all knew that if another call came it would be our turn.
On Sunday, as we finished straightening our bunks amid the rowdiness of the barracks, I prayed a simple, quiet prayer. I asked for a sign I had made the correct decision by volunteering for service rather than going to graduate school. Interrupting my prayer, as if on cue, in walked the drill sergeant, his hands full of a stack of newspapers—the first we had seen in six weeks. The bold letters on the front page read, “Tornado in Lubbock, Texas. 27 Killed.” Commencement was cancelled.
That night I used my one allowed phone call to dial my former roommate. He told me there were only three bricks left on our apartment. The rest was gone. Here was the answer to the question I dared not ask, a confirmation to my quiet prayer.
Jesus of Nazareth brings grace and truth to enlighten a darkened world. Many people have seen that light approaching. Some may see the procession but not opt to join the parade. However, a few might see a message written exclusively for them amid the pageantry. That message may transform what is, by all accounts, a bivouac in basic training into what writer Beldon Lane calls, “backpacking with the saints.”
Live among us, God, that we might know your grace and truth. Amen.
December 18
Luke 21.29–31
29Then he told them a parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; 30as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. 31So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near.
Baptist Hospital in Columbia, South Carolina, is a place where people worry whether the fig tree’s leaves will sprout. People in scrubs of every color march the halls, passing visitors clutching cheap paperbacks to distract themselves while they wait for illness to pass. Everyone speaks in hushed tones, covering the raw distinction between life and death with complex medical terms: a ruptured appendix means your stomach has a hole in it; atelectasis means you can’t breathe; pneumonia means your lungs are filling with fluid. Concern for the bare fig tree compels a chaplain to pray over the intercom twice a day. Hospitals and football games, I now know, are two places where you will be prayed for—whether you want it or not.
Sixteen years ago, my unborn son and my wife almost died there. Seven months pregnant, her appendix ruptured. Each morning, I passed the same coffee stand on my way to her hospital room. The barista was a Black woman who didn’t speak in hushed tones or move with the careful precision of someone afraid of lawsuits. “Tell me what you want, sugar,” she beckoned. I gave her my order and surrendered to my curiosity. At a loss for how to phrase my question theologically, I simply asked, “Why are you so happy?”
If we hadn’t been in a hospital, the question might not have made any sense. But she understood. She saw the worry in my face and recognized me as a regular. “You can’t let nobody steal your joy, baby,” she warned. “If they take your joy, you got nothing else.”
God, may the stories we tell each other be true. Forgive us while we learn which ones are not. Redeem us from the folly of not yet knowing, to be healed and never forget the fig tree is about to bloom. Amen.
Since childhood, I have wrestled with the challenge of embodying Jesus in this “stranger danger” world. Me? Ask a stranger for a drink? No way! That shatters all safety rules. I should never walk alone at night, never leave a drink unattended, always avert my gaze in the grocery store parking lot.
For years, I was building a brick wall around myself, fortified by fear and the relentless narratives of a world that felt increasingly hostile. Strangers became shadows of threat rather than neighbors of grace. I was cynically stuck in my own naïve view of the world. Yet, amid my guarded existence, a gentle nudge called me to step beyond my comfort zone and confront this wall head-on.
Opening myself to participate in Sharing Sacred Spaces, a community-building dialogue program, I was challenged to bridge bias and misunderstanding through immersive education that illuminates our shared humanity. I learned to dismantle the brick walls I had erected, replacing them with windows of compassion and connection. Each conversation, each shared story, was a sip from the well of our collective experience.
In those moments of vulnerability, I felt God’s presence gently guiding me, reminding me that true safety lies not in isolation but in community. I can remain safety-conscious while still opening my heart to others. Just as Jesus reached out to the Samaritan woman, I discovered that God often arrives quietly, urging us to extend our hands and hearts to one another.
God,
Help us to break down walls of fear, cynicism, and isolation. May we embrace the strangers in our midst, recognizing them as neighbors. Guide us to extend compassion and love, reflecting your presence in our lives. Amen.
December 20
John 20.21–22
21Again Jesus said, “Peace be with you! As the Father has sent me, I am sending you.” 22And with that he breathed on them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit.”
The hour is brittle and the wind is cold and the people are scared. Mothers and their babies huddle alongside ancients clutching their ancient parchment documenting their ancient histories in ancient tongues. There are bulky men, too, whose arms–bullets and muscle sinews alike–may fail them if the shelter folds. The Outer Dark curdles against the walls of the encampment as the eternal footman raps his scythe on the hoarfrost without. Home is behind, the world ahead.
Yet on this pilgrim voyage slouching towards Bethlehem, something shimmers in the darkness. The old stories tell of an Angel of Death; this no angel, but a Breath hovering in the stillness and quiet.
The pilgrims have breathed deeply of this Breath as they share stories and sing songs and bellow with laughter. They have called the Breath by different names and breathed as they each know how. They have bickered over the breath and nearly broken their own battlements in an effort to un-breath each other.
Tonight, as ever, the Breath hovers, and the pilgrims hold their breaths by turns and by turns remind each other to breathe. The Breath stirs, imperceptibly, in righteous anger at every blow from the hard wilderness.
Soon, though the pilgrims know not when, the sky will breathe and dawn will break.
When will the dawn break?
When will the sky breathe?
When will the hour come?
May your Spirit guide us home. Amen.
December 21
Matthew 1.19–20
19Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to divorce her quietly. 20But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.
The dilemma, the decision, and the Divine Where law and standards cease to have jurisdiction Where the norms of justice don’t apply for some Once “why me?” subsides
The dilemma, the decision, and the Divine Reminds us that we are saved by grace Recalls to us the moments wished to be forgotten Once “how could?” leaves the room
The dilemma, the decision, and the Divine Is the attention sought by a stranger in need on a busy day The whisper of embarrassment that could stain our character When “I can’t” or “I’m not” comes into play
The dilemma, the decision, and the Divine Tries to find the best path forward Places our feet in the other’s shoes When pleasing God is the outcome we desperately seek
The dilemma, the decision, and the Divine. They are opportunities that bless us often in our life, once we accept the circumstances. They remind us that we are saved by grace and not our own works. They show up on a busy day when our attention is sought by a stranger in need. They arrives when our best laid plans are overshadowed by the unexpected and unfathomable. And as in the story of Joseph, they offer the space where transformation can occur, if only we are willing to submit ourselves to God.
I sat in a routine scholarship performance review for a student who was receiving an extension of foster care grant. The student’s grades had significantly declined below the required GPA due to working long hours at a new job. Our review team’s judgment was automatic and unanimous. We all preached the importance of setting priorities, noting that grades should come before all else. Still, as we prepared to discontinue the student’s scholarship, an advocate in the room interjected to say, “this was the first time she could buy her own clothes.” The room fell silent. Eventually, we reversed our decision.
I felt the presence of the Holy Spirit correcting us all in that moment, helping us recognize our limitations in understanding the circumstances of others. Rules, norms, and even laws can give us cover, if we seek it. But compassion, consideration, and love for our neighbor can bring about a different conversation with the Holy Spirit, as well as a better outcome.
During this Advent season, let us strive for a better outcome.
God, help us find peace in the changes around us. Be with us as we both grieve what we have lost, and celebrate what we have gained. When the world is no longer familiar, help us recognize hope. Amen.
December 22
John 1:10–11
10He was in the world, and the world came into being through him, yet the world did not know him. 11He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him.
Over the holidays, I spend a few nights in my childhood bedroom. For 18 years, it was my retreat from the world. But a decade has passed. The baby blue walls have been painted a sensible beige. The twin bed has been exchanged for a queen. My posters have been removed with little to replace them. Yet I know that room. The texture of the walls is unchanged, the carpet is still worn, and the closet remains an absolute wreck.
Now, when I’m in my room, I see the past. As if you took a photo every day for the last 30 years and overlaid them, one over another. I see it evolving over time. Books replacing the toys on my shelves. Furniture constantly being rearranged. My past selves intersect with my present. I feel their worries, fears, and dreams.
Does my room recognize me now? Surely I’ve also changed. I’ve overcome those worries and fears, and seek refuge elsewhere. I like to think I love myself better, and am more sure in my beliefs. Does my room look at me with remorse and betrayal for these changes? Does it judge my growth as I judge its dull walls?
I look at my room again, and see that I’ve overlooked a new addition. There is now a crib in the corner where my nieces laugh, cry, and rest. And I realize that the greatest change to my room is that it’s no longer my own. And perhaps it never was.
December 23
Romans 8.26
26Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness, for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with groanings too deep for words.
There’s a quiet that comes when you’ve run out of prayers. It’s not the peaceful kind. It hums in your chest when you’ve asked every question you can think of and still don’t have an answer.
Sometimes I think God understands me best in the moments I understand myself the least. The past few years have been full of that kind of holy confusion—wondering what’s next, what I’m doing, if I’m still on the right path. There’s a moment in every transition when your heart feels louder than your words—that was me—trying to figure out what was next, feeling called and lost at the same time.
I didn’t know what to pray for anymore. I just kept showing up. And somewhere in that silence, God was already speaking.
When I finally said “yes” to Dallas—to a new city, a new church, a new everything—it wasn’t because I felt brave. There were times when prayer felt more like survival than eloquence. Just, “God, please,” or sometimes, nothing at all. But in those moments, something unseen was holding me together. That strange middle space between faith and fear became the place where grace learned my name.
Now, I can see that those silent prayers were never wasted. Every unknown became an invitation. Every weakness, a doorway. Every groan, a conversation. Advent meets us there—in the quiet, the unsure, the trembling—and whispers: you’re not alone; the Spirit is already praying with you.
And maybe, the holiest thing we can do is stay open long enough to be found.
Spirit of quiet strength, meet us in the in-between. When words fail, let your love speak instead. When prayer feels impossible, breathe for us. Keep our hearts open long enough to be found–by grace, by light, by you. In our waiting, may we rest in your gentle arrival. May it be so. Amen.
December
24
Luke 2.4–5
4Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. 5He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child.
“What’s new?” used to be an open-ended question that broke the ice and kindled conversation. Innocent enough, right? I honestly don’t know when, but “what’s new” has taken on a whole new meaning. The latest flash point in Washington, Austin, or down the block. Our phones lighting up with a gazillion breaking news alerts. Somebody doing something even more outrageous than the thing that just happened. Sudden and unimaginable natural disasters.
I spent 40 years in the “what’s new” business of journalism and I’ve never seen a news cycle like this one. Everything’s live and constantly changing. Almost everything. God the Eternal sees everything we see, feels everything we feel, and waits in the quiet.
Two thousand years ago, the Roman census created unbridled chaos in Bethlehem. People pushed and shoved their way down the streets of the tiny town, clamoring to be seen and heard and counted in their ancestral homes. Exhausted from a four-hour walk, Joseph and a very pregnant Mary arrived smack in the middle of the noise and confusion. God the Eternal saw everything they saw, felt everything they felt, and waited in the quiet of a stable. Exhausted from their journey, carrying the weight of having a child out of wedlock, I imagine Joseph and Mary broken and desperate.
When this world brings me to my knees, I try to remember God has never left my side. I listen and hear God’s voice cut through the noise, promising me a future full of unending love and comfort and forgiveness.
As Joseph and Mary looked into their newborn son’s face, they could never imagine what was about to happen. Having faith in what we cannot see is the forever gift God gives us—the antidote to “what’s new.”
Heavenly Parent, we’re not very good at waiting. Still our nervous minds. Teach us the quiet beauty of patience. May our worry become wonder as we anticipate eternity. Amen.
December 25
John 1.3–5
3All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being 4in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. 5The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overtake it.
