The Art of Moderation

Moderation. 

We talk about it. We advocate it. We know we should practice it. But is it our first impulse?

To know the answer, we need only look around. We need not look any further than our own life. There is something deep within our psyche that urges us to either overdo or underdo anything we take on. 

We can spend more energy defending our reasons for either obsessively pursuing an ideal, or staunchly avoiding a practice, than we can spend actually discovering what God wants us to do.

The answer isn't very complicated. Nothing in a believer's life should take the place of their love for Christ and commitment to following the clear instructions outlined in the Bible.

But spend any amount of time on Facebook or in the bookstore or in the grocery store or at the mall or in government, you quickly start to see the natural bent of the human condition. If it is good to eat healthy and exercise, it must be REALLY good to live on veggies and supplements, go gluten free, oil up, spend massive amounts of money on systems and products, and hit the gym as hard as you can every day, whether everything and everyone else in your life suffers or not. 

If it's good to provide options and care for those who might be tempted to turn to abortion, it must be REALLY good to go on a crusade to have the laws reflect our belief and to expose the evil deeds of the guilty. If it's good to live according to the Word and avoid what God says won't work in sex and relationships, it must be REALLY good to attack unbelievers who have been convinced by the circumstances of their life that they have no other option. It must be righteous of us to refuse to serve them, to fight for laws to prevent their legal unions. To shame them, somehow, into saving faith in Christ.

We all have to know better. We all have to be assured that this has never worked, and it never will. Shaming, hateful and arrogant, ignorant attacks have never produced genuine salvation in anyone. Likewise, as believers, our home is not this present world.

We are visitors. We're from out of town. We aren't going to stay here, and this life was never meant to be our perfect vision. 

It's the drawback of having a country that was founded on biblical principles. When we start to believe that we can have it all, that our every desire can be met and every discomfort avoided, we start to believe that everyone around us is getting in our way. We start to forget that God promised the life of a Christian would not be easy, and would often reflect the suffering of Jesus. We forget to be humble, and to remember where we came from, and what we were saved from.

Did Jesus eat healthy? Jesus probably ate whatever was offered, what others thoughtfully provided for him. He probably ate mostly fish, olives, dates and bread. He often fasted in order to pray more effectively. We can be certain that Jesus didn't have an entitled, over-zealous attitude about food, one way or the other. Can you imagine Jesus going on a tirade on facebook because he felt others were judging his eating habits? 

That being said, while Jesus lived in a culture where food may have been plentiful, it was all obtained through hard work and nature. We have a culture of people that crave so much, many of our foods have to be modified and filled and preserved to extremes. Our sustenance has become a business. Is it sin to eat this food, and eat so much of it even after we are aware those foods aren't good for the one body we get for our entire life?

God intends for us to enjoy the food He created for our bodies to benefit from. But I've learned the hard way that I am responsible to find foods and limits and abstentions that give me the best chance of getting through the day and fulfilling my responsibilities without being ill, tired or overburdened. I am a steward of the body God gave me. Sin makes it not work perfectly. But just as you would keep up the maintenance on a car you hope to last you a while, we have to learn to take care of our bodies and say no to our cravings that, in the end, cause us harm.

Does that mean we are responsible for others' bodies? If I see a cartful of junk food in the cart of a believer ahead of me at the checkout, am I obligated to say something? 

We are all in a different place. If we are believers, God has each of us on a plan that will get us where we need to be. Some of us are new to that process, others have been tweaked by God most of our lives. If you try to play God in someone else's life - or worse - try to shame an unbeliever into making decisions only a Holy Spirit-filled heart is capable of making, you are working against His methods and slowing down His work.

It's all about learning to control our desires and become moderate people. Moderate in our dress, in our diet, in our words, in our emotions, in our reactions, in our expectations. We should be moderate about everything, in fact, save our love and devotion to Christ. That means that the only thing we are passionate about is furthering the Gospel. That will take a few different forms, and branch out in a few different areas from the specific gifts and talents we've been given by God, but it's never going to take you so far that you are indifferent, apathetic, hateful, judgmental or cynical. It's never going to lead you into any sort of addiction to food, entertainment, money, drugs, sex or alcohol. When you fall into those negative places and find yourself at odds with everyone and uncomfortable in your life and in your skin, when you struggle to find any time left over for the things (people) that matter for eternity, you've probably gone off the course of moderation.

It's not something any of us come by easily. It's a process of learning to tell our selves NO when something (other than our love for Christ and for people) has become too important to us, and to motivate ourselves when we are distracted and unconcerned about the things that are important to our Savior.

It's a process that is worth the risk, and worth the humbling, and worth the uphill climb. It's a process that brings us closer to the only pursuit that will matter in the end.

Moderation in everything else leaves our hearts free to love Jesus with abandon.

Why He Needs to be Remembered

WHY HE NEEDS TO BE REMEMBERED

By Miranda Shisler

Few memories from childhood find him absent, though he remained quiet, though he listened more than he spoke. His face almost always bore a smile, or a contented contemplation. Corny jokes were the bread and butter of our conversations, and the teasing and sarcasm that themed his words strangely yet clearly translated into our minds only love. Acceptance. Pride.

I don’t know if I’ve ever met someone like my dad. I don’t know if I ever will again. I am like him in many ways. So is my mother, so are my sisters. I see certain attributes retained in his grandchildren. A preferred way of sitting, a facial expression, a favorite taste, a beloved phrase spoken as a mantra until it became ingrained in our brains and now slips as easily from our tongues as it did from his.

Dad had a tremendous capacity for feeling. He could feel the rush of passion over a sunset or a tiny flower by the path. He saw and zealously loved things that no one else noticed. Words flowed from his fingers, tumbling one over the other in a mad rush to find the page, displaying his every thought, every emotion, every color and shade of his person. Before digital photography made everyone good at taking pictures, he could capture emotion on whatever camera he could afford. He made art. He was genuine, letting his honest, quiet nature flow naturally into everything he created.

Dad never had anything to prove. He was more outspoken online in his last years, and may have engaged in debates or voiced opinions, but when you knew him up close, when you were paying attention, you became convinced that he was exceptionally humble. His faith never wavered. He knew that people can sharpen one another by being honest and real, but he was always able to separate the person from the opinion and love them because they were beautiful creations, no matter the disagreement. He saw beauty in everyone. He believed the best about everyone. He never worried over what people thought or took it personally when he was overlooked or disregarded. He knew where he stood with God, and it was enough.

Dad was a dream-follower. He believed we are each gifted with a measure of greatness and profound ability, ready to be used up for the glory of God if we can stay humble and willing to work. His interests as a child were the things he was good at as an adult. He didn’t give up on ideas. If it could be proven to his sometimes skeptical nature, he would change his mind.

My dad would change his mind.

How rare is it to find someone who is willing to change their opinion? Someone who is humble enough to admit they are not always right, that they make errors in judgment or give in to stubbornness, and they are willing to retrace their steps and admit “This is where I went wrong. I’m going a different direction now.”

When you have lost someone you loved and respected, you tend to forget the negative aspects of their character. “Forget” may be the wrong word. I still remember well that my dad could be stubborn, that he could overdo the teasing, that he was sometimes too timid in person and too outspoken online. He was a bit of a pack rat and sometimes he was a little antisocial. But now, looking back on his life and the obvious hole he left in mine … those things don’t matter anymore.

So be assured of this: that annoying trait in your loved one that drives you crazy … if they were gone tomorrow, it wouldn’t matter.

Dreamers come from Dreamers …

Dad didn’t just believe in his dreams. He believed in ours. You may have heard him talking about our skills. It didn’t start there, when we began to accomplish things as adults. When I was four years old, I sang in church. I am told I talked a lot about singing in church when I was little. And I got right up on that stage and sang the heart out of Away in a Manger. There’s a picture of me, most likely taken by him. I wish there was a picture of him holding that camera. I can see in my mind the look on my dad’s face. “That’s my girl. She wanted to express herself by singing, and there she is, doing it.”

He still had the same look on his face when I was singing on the stage at the age of thirty on any given Sunday morning. (I remember my eyes catching on him from my place on the stage—when he came into the service the Sunday before the Wednesday morning he died.) He didn’t wear a pride so much, that HIS daughters were good at things, but that we were willing to put ourselves on notice with our talents. We were willing to be used. We were willing to put the hard work in and let God develop us for whatever purposes he had in mind. And no matter where our interests led us at the time, if it was doing puppet shows in VBS or cheerleading or getting a job or playing piano or writing a story or getting a part in the spring play … he had that look on his face. That look of satisfaction. Approval. He said “good job” and “I’m proud of you,” but what I remember is the look on his face. That expression that housed more feeling than any trite phrase a parent feels compelled to say. He spoke infinitely larger with his expression. You are my treasure. You are loved by God and the interests and abilities he’s given you are important to him and to me. You will be used if you surrender your ambitions to him. You are my greatest offering to this world. You are my hope for the future, for my descendants, for the cause of Christ.

Dad loved. He loved people with a passion that exceeded his timid nature. He loved people so much he became a pastor instead of a journalist. And he could have been a successful journalist. But way back in his twenties he could sense the measure of his days, and he didn’t want to end them with awards and credits. He wanted people to know God, and thus be changed. He wanted the comfort and peace Jesus brings to broken lives and hurting people more than he wanted personal achievement and accolades. To me, that’s love.

Perhaps you were a recipient of Dad’s love. If you were a member of his flock or a friend or one of his students or a family member, rest assured—he loved you. He prayed for you. He agonized over the best way to teach you God’s Word. He strove to be a good example to you. Even if you had a few healthy debates with him, you can rest assured he never held a grudge. Trust me. I was his daughter, and not once in all my thirty-six years of knowing my father did I see him lose his temper. Ever. I can’t even imagine it. So I can be positive he never harbored any grievances. He probably respected you more for being willing to discuss whatever matter came up, whether you ended up agreeing with him or not. He probably loved you much more than he ever told you, and you might be surprised how much he thought of you.

My dad went to his home with Jesus long before he expected to, long before we expected him to, long before it made sense. He flew away in the breaking dawn of another normal Wednesday when he was scheduled to work at church and take care of responsibilities. He was about fifty pages into writing a new novel. He was in the middle of teaching an adult Sunday School class. He had stacks of other people’s manuscripts all over his office he was helping them to edit. You may be one of those people, and I know if he were able, he would sincerely apologize for not being able to finish those projects with you.

Dad flew away not when we expected, but at the perfect time. Even though my heart strains against the truth, he went when his days, numbered before he had been born, were through. After all, I have no way of knowing whether this very day is the final one allotted to my life from before creation. And I could not change it if I did know, nor would I want to had I all the information. Though our view of death—the view marred by sin—is dark, disturbing and ever-jarring, now Dad’s version is sweet, filled with reunions. Precious people he laid to rest over the years. Seeing his parents again. Seeing some of the mysterious ancestors he studied, as well as the people of the Bible. Being present with Jesus the moment he was no longer present in his body. I would never claim to comprehend the logistics of those who exist without their earthly bodies for a time, but I know that God says no one is dead to him, and that the death of his saints is precious to him. My dad is with Jesus. His faith has become sight, in that mysterious and inconceivable way that almost scares us this side of the veil, we who have yet to walk across that dark river.

Grief … a Year Later

What does it feel like a year past the time one loses the father they loved? After all, you have probably heard it said: that it never gets easier, and that time heals all wounds. Both are true. Though grief does not continually overwhelm your senses as it does in those first days and weeks, it leaves a scar that will continue to occasionally trouble a soul, just as a physical wound might. Wounds can harden if they do not heal right, wounds can leave scar tissue and mar permanently, and grief does the same thing to the soul.

As many times as I say that I believe Dad flew away at exactly the right time, and as much as I believe it, it is a truth I have to contend with on occasion. Unexpected grief leaves you gasping for air, reeling and trying to make sense of your life in its new version. That sense of panic can easily take hold if allowed a place. But I will answer to the unspoken question—if I could go back and rewrite time, if I could translate myself to Tuesday night, March 4^th, 2014, what would I do differently?

I would tell my dad I loved him. I would tell him he was the best dad a girl could hope for. I would tell him that I’m thankful for him, for his tender affection and guidance, for his example and his quiet spirit and his passion for life. I would tell him I was going to run on in his honor.

“Wait a minute,” you say. “Wouldn’t you tell him not to go to sleep? Wouldn’t you wait up all night with him, until the clock had sounded six chimes and he was still breathing; his heart still beating? Wouldn’t you try to change it?”

Honestly, if I were given that choice, I probably would try to stop him from going to bed. Who wouldn’t? It wouldn’t matter, though, because the moment I told him I was from the future and he couldn’t go to bed because he was going to die, that would be the moment he laughed at me and said “Nice try, goodnight.”

But do I regret my father’s passing?

I try to squirm away from the question, because the answer will seem odd. In every sense you would expect I do regret it, but at the same time, I cannot deny that his death formed me and created a deeper, more resilient character. His death made me see him and appreciate him in every way I had ever taken him for granted. I can see how I am more mature in Christ for having gone through this valley. I am closer to my mother and sisters than ever before, and we have always been close. I am less fearful of the worst, because I now have absolute trust that God is there with unexplained peace when life is suddenly darker than you thought possible. I have learned so much about my father from all the people that came rushing to our side the moment you all discovered he was gone. You have been gentle, and I have learned that my family is larger than I ever understood before it happened. I have become tender to grief in others, more apt to reach out to someone who has been knocked over by the cruel force of loss, rather than be awkwardly afraid to say the wrong thing.

So, no, I do not regret his passing.

I feel it as the mark of a traitor as I say it, but then I hear Dad’s voice in my head. Telling me it’s okay to think that way, because that’s the way he sees it, the way God sees it. To regret it would mean I would willingly turn over all that has been done in me to change a plan that God saw fit to create before time began. It’s not worth it.

Dad would agree.

Today I ask you to mark the one year anniversary of Dad’s last day on earth in two ways. First, I ask you to give testimony to something he taught you, something he wrote, some way that he made your life different. It doesn’t matter if it’s a little thing and you only met him once or you only knew him online. We crave more of the ones we lose, and my mother and sisters and I have all but exhausted our resources of Dad from his office and boxes and journals. Any morsel you can think of will be welcomed.

I also ask you to mark this day by telling someone what they mean to you. Maybe you’re afraid to be mushy, maybe you just haven’t had the time, maybe something has come between you and a loved one that has wounded your relationship. Today would be a good day, in Dad’s honor, to heal that wound, to say those words, to offer that hug or that promise. Dad would count it all joy if you would be willing to do it on his behalf, and on my behalf, because I realized it was time to say it one day too late.

May his memory go on, and may we who knew him live lives that honor what he taught us and more importantly, the God he loved and served with every last breath of life and strength he was given. May we approach our own time of passing, whenever it may come, with joy and hope, knowing our eternity has been secured through Jesus’ work on our behalf, and living with abandon and determination until we stand at the edge of that dark river … and see the brightness of Christ’s beautiful face shining in the distance.

“I do not believe in accidents. I do not believe in happenstance.

I do not believe in coincidence, or chance. I believe in the plan of God for

my life.

“That is comforting to know… God is always in control.”

-Thomas M. Parsons

June 5, 1941 — March 5, 2014

Available on Amazon Kindle!

If you haven't had a chance to like my author page, I have an ebook available on Amazon today! 

It started out as a journey to learn how to survive the day with multiple health issues not solved through traditional medicine. I've learned quite a bit and finally started to feel well, and I told myself if I got to that place I'd be responsible to share my story for others in that same place.

Find it HERE  and please share with others you think might benefit! 

Thanks!

Available Tuesday, February 10, 2015!

Have you tried everything to lose weight, or to shake off debilitating symptoms like fatigue, anxiety, depression and infertility? Have you been pronounced healthy by your doctor yet you are suffering on a daily basis? Are you tired of lengthy books and expensive fads that overwhelm or promise more than they can produce? Are you ready to give up on the process altogether, since nothing works anyway?

Don’t give up just yet! In this short, inexpensive, easy-to-read-and-follow ebook, you will learn (from someone who has been there) how to achieve weight loss, find your missing energy, and manage symptoms of thyroid problems, infertility, adrenal fatigue and autoimmune conditions, even if you have been unable to conquer these issues with prescription medicines or diet fads.

You will get an introduction to supplements and oils that can renew your metabolism and gut health, recipes and shopping lists that will give you a practical place to start your changes in food, and the emotional reassurance we all need that our health and weight struggles are not all in our head, are not all our fault, and ARE able to be defeated without the process taking over your life.

Hi! I'm Miranda Shisler, author of outside-the-box Christian fiction and healthy living advocate. I've been on a life-long journey to overcome these problems, and I've learned the things that really work and will get you started on your own journey to wellness and healing.

This ebook will be available this Tuesday, February 10! I hope you'll check it out! I will have a link up when it is ready.

Reforming Christian Fiction

I've started calling myself an "outside-the-box" author of Christian historical romance. But what does that mean? And why does it matter?

I recently wrote this post asking the question "Are you reading the wrong Christian fiction?" and I was encouraged by the response it received on Facebook. Maybe I'm not the only one standing alone on my soapbox, and there are more of you out there who are dissatisfied with the state of our stories.

Recently I read the blog post of a nineteen-year-old young woman who claimed she had stopped reading Christian fiction, especially romances, and one of the reasons she cited was that they were often blatantly inappropriate.

While I believe it is important for women to find the genre best suited to them, and what a nineteen-year-old and a woman in mid-life might think appropriate are two different things, she has a point. Any fiction that causes women to be dissatisfied with their husband (or their vision of what a husband might someday be) because of the "perfect" image of a hero in a romance, is not appropriate and should be avoided. But what the young woman doesn't realize is that there are some pretty complicated reasons why this is happening, and changing things is not going to be an easy, overnight process. But she's right about one thing.

We HAVE to stop buying or even just reading fiction that doesn't measure up to the standards we should have for our literature.

I say this with trepidation as an author, because I know I am putting myself on notice. It is one of my passions to pass along this commitment of reform to other authors. I can see that some of the authors I used to enjoy have "sold out" under the pressure of the demands of traditional agents and publishers. I know by my dealings with some of the people on the inside that it really doesn't matter what kind of writer a person is. If they aren't willing to cave to the formula expected (that will make money), they have no future in traditional publishing.

I believe we are on the edge of a new way of doing things. I firmly believe that agents and publishers have readers wrong. They are convinced that what we want as readers is what we are getting, because that's how they are making money. But I don't think it's necessarily the truth anymore.

Right now, this new way of doing things and thinking about Christian fiction is largely unorganized and haphazard. But it's time for us to roll up our sleeves and get to it. So what is a practical place to start for all of us as readers? For me, and others like me, as authors?

What I promise as a reader of Christian fiction:

I promise to be thoughtful in my reading choices, to raise my standards to those that bring me closer to Christ, and to have a voice in this reforming process happening right now.

This means we promise to stop reading or buying books that don't change us. That contain fairy-tale notions of romance that give us unrealistic expectations of our own lives. We agree that literature is critical to our thought-developing process, and important to our state of being. We promise to be open to new ideas, new genres, new authors and new ways of obtaining our stories.

We promise to find the authors that are writing with their whole heart and ability, for the glory of God, and help them get the word out, because they are doing it all themselves and cannot hope to succeed without the aid of readers.

What I promise as an author of Christian fiction:

I promise to write with my whole heart and all my ability, for the glory of Christ.

This means, ultimately, I promise not to write what pleases me, or what pleases other people, but what pleases Christ. I promise to edit carefully, with every resource, perspective and tool I can reasonably obtain. I promise not to let a book reach your hands before I have prayed over it and prayed for you, its readers. I promise first to have sculpted and shaped it, listened carefully to the perspective of other knowledgeable writers and readers, and changed what must be changed.

It doesn't mean you won't find a typo or two, or an awkward sentence here or there. I don't have all the resources of traditional publishing to ensure a perfect look and feel. But I will use my perfectionist tendencies to make sure you don't regret buying a book I have written. (Or getting it free on kindle once in awhile!) :)

This doesn't mean it will be written in the same style as the traditionally published books. After all, that's the point of reform. I consider very deeply what readers want, but it is not my highest authority. Sometimes we don't know what we want until we get it. And we don't all respond to the same things. From me, you will usually get something that pushes the edges of genres. I love romance, and I love historical, but not at the expense of a bit of mystery, adventure and maybe even a sprinkling of supernatural.

I love authors who look at things in a more detailed way, leaning in and focusing a bit more on any given scene. I want to explore what the characters might be thinking and feeling as they move through the story. This is one of the reasons I didn't fit in the traditionally published world, because the demand of the mysterious masses is that authors rush through a story as efficiently as possible so that everyone can be on their way. Don't get me wrong, I know we're all busy! I keep our shorter attention spans in mind when I write, and I try not to waste words. But I am searching for readers who would love to open the box with me and climb out to see the possibilities. I'm writing for the curious, for the imaginative, for the thinkers and feelers, and for the explorers. That person that sits for an hour staring at a painting, trying to unlock every secret, and who hates to get up and leave when the art museum closes? That's the reader I'm looking for.

My promise also doesn't mean that you will always agree with everything I write in a story. If you did, it wouldn't be much of a book. The purpose of art is to help us see different perspectives. To make us a little uncomfortable as we consider something we wouldn't have considered on our own. (Think about how disturbing a picture some of the Bible's stories paint for us!) A writer's job is to tell a story that communicates something - some idea important to understanding the nature of God or the nature of man. But I will make it my goal to present possibly bigger ideas in entertaining and fun ways.

I hope this post has inspired both readers and authors of Christian fiction. I hope we can all move toward a better place in order that we can all have a bigger impact for Christ.

What about you? What are you reading? What are you writing? What authors come to mind when you think about these things?

Author Page Happenings

My writer friend Tanya Dennis has been reminding me on a regular basis for quite some time that an author needs a dedicated Facebook page. I was afraid to make the leap, but I finally closed my eyes and jumped.

Knowing my difficulties with keeping up with a blog, I will probably be more active on the Facebook page. But you can still reach me and receive updates either way. Here's the link:

Miranda Shisler, Author

On my author page, there are two descriptions of projects that will be published later this year. If either interests you, please "like" the page and share it with others you think might also be interested. Indie authors depend on word of mouth like a lifeline to their calling!

A Vision of a Silent Night

By now, I’m sure I took a wrong turn somewhere.

I try to remember where I was coming from, and where I was going. My past is a foggy memory, and my life seems removed. Irrelevant.

So I travel this path, dark and dusty and rocky. My moccasin slippers seem ill-equipped for the stones and the hills. I see dim lights ahead—some sort of small town? I wouldn’t be able to see anything if it weren’t for the sky. I’ve never seen such a brilliant sky at night, not even out in the middle of nowhere where all the stars that usually hide reveal their presence.

There’s one star that’s particularly bright. If I’m not crazy, it seems to be pointing downward—as an arrow? This is a strange night and a strange place. A prickly sensation passes over me. I would suspect a dream, but it’s so real. I feel a chill in the night air. I smell something smoky, like the remains of a bonfire at a campground. I turn and view a logical world, as far as my eyes can see. This isn’t the nonsensical meanderings of a sleeping brain carrying out the day’s thought garbage. I can hear the bleating of sheep on a nearby hill. The leaves of the trees rustle with whispers when the wind gently pushes their branches.

Beyond that, it is a silent night.

What else can I do? I follow the star. It appears to be pointing at the little village anyway. I reach the outskirts of the small town and wonder where I might find a place to wait out the night until I can figure out how to get home. Somehow, I have stepped into a story. I have been brought here to remember.

“Perhaps a journey every soul must take,” I whisper.

I see movement in a small cave with a rickety shed built over the entrance. I feel a holy pull and I step forward, my heart racing and my soul sensitive with passion, because by now I’ve recognized the significance of where I am. I can’t get to the stable fast enough.

Are you here? My spirit calls to him, my eyes flood with tears and the hair rises on my arms as a chill passes over me. Are you really here?

I almost forget there are others present who do not see this night as a memory. I stop in respect and allow the young man and the girl in the corner to see me before I interrupt.

“Good evening,” I say in a reverent voice, for my eyes have found beauty. To one not paying attention, he might look like any other newborn, with red, wrinkled skin and a head of dark hair. His blinking brown eyes view his world for the first time.

But he is the loveliest sight to me, and before I realize what I am doing, I’ve dropped to my knees. My head is bowed. It is the only response that feels appropriate.

They seem to understand. The man smiles tentatively and beckons me closer. The girl—I suppose I never realized how young she really was until I see the light in her eyes, barely more than a child. Younger than me by decades. She is uncertain and awkward in her movements as she holds the baby. I feel a wave of empathy and sit next to her, touching her shoulder. It is thin and small.

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “You’re going to do a great job, Mary.”

For some reason, she understands my words, and I understand hers, though she answers in a different tongue. I praise the Keeper of this vision for allowing me to know her heart.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice high and quiet. “He is a beautiful child, no?”

“The most beautiful I have ever seen, and I have four of my own,” I say with a smile. I have a motherly reaction to the naivety I recognize in her features. I ask after her condition, glad to see things have been cared for and she is holding the baby against her chest and under her coarse cloak where he will be able to stay warm.

“The midwife came and saw to things,” Joseph explains. He moves away, reclining in the straw, exhausted. His eyes close and in seconds he is softly snoring.

“It has been a long night.” Mary looks at her husband with sympathy. “He has taken care of me. He is a good man.”

“A good man makes all the difference,” I say with understanding, before my eyes return to the baby’s face.

I am unable to speak and overcome with awe. I can only watch him for what seems like hours. Finally I make myself break the silence because I have to speak the question. A question that is nearly cliché in the holiday season, but here, it cuts through my heart with meaning.

“Do you know, Mary? Do you know who this is?”

She turns wide brown eyes on me. She nods. “This is the Messiah.”

She whispers it; as if she’s afraid I will reprimand her for being foolish. Little does she know.

“Do you know what this little Messiah is going to do for us?” I dare to reach out a finger and touch the little fist that has broken from its wrapping and gives an unsteady wave. The tiny fingers wrap around mine and hold fast. He grabs hold of my soul at the same time, and I almost can’t breathe with the love that comes over me—but not my love for him. His love for me.

“He’s going to save us.” Mary’s voice holds an element of fear. She must truly have an idea of the true nature of the saving, though her people believe the Messiah will be a political conqueror who releases them from their bondage. I search her somber eyes and think she knows more than she is confident enough to say. But what mother would want to say it? She has just experienced the powerful nature of love that gripped her body, mind and being. It is the gift of God—the protective blessing of a mother’s love.

But Mary’s mother-love won’t be able to protect forever. I suspect she knows that.

I reach for her shoulders, intent that she hear my words. How many times had I longed for a chance to return in time and speak to her? “Mary, I’m so thankful for you, and that you are willing to do this. To spend your all on this little one, knowing he belongs to the whole world, and to all of time and eternity. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be you right now, knowing the price of our sin, knowing God is hiding somewhere in that bit of baby flesh. God is going to get you through this. He’s going to give you exactly as much grace as you need to do this. And we’ll all be thanking you thousands of years after you’ve done it.”

She lifts eyes brimming with tears. I sense she understands. She gives a quick nod. We sit in silence after that. Shepherds come and go, and Joseph wakes to check on them. Eventually dawn begins a tug of war with the light of the star, and inevitably the sun wins the battle.

When day comes, Joseph packs their belongings and prepares to move his family out of the stable. Their day will be routine, dull and irritating. They will wait in lines to register and pay taxes to a king who doesn’t care about them. They will find a place to stay. In a few days they will walk into the temple and have their son dedicated. In the meantime there will be meals to fix and fires to build and animals to care for. They will talk about money, about travel plans, about friends and family they have left back home. They will make decisions about what to do to care for the little Messiah who has been sent, for whatever divine reason, into their humble, struggling family.

But Mary will know the whole time. She will see that dark spot on the horizon, and she will be altered because of it. How could she not? I see her ultimate sacrifice, and though it will pale in comparison to the suffering destined to come upon him, hers will not be small or trite.

“Thank you,” I say one more time before they walk away. I go back the way I came, toward the place where vision meets dream, and dream meets waking, safe and sound in my own comfortable bed.

I remember the last glance I stole of my Savior. I know they say newborns don’t smile.

But that one did.