I have to be up front and honest with you. I haven’t posted to the blog in a few weeks because I haven’t been able to write a single word. Not one syllable. A small part of that problem has been simply logistics with my own lack of time and energy. The bigger part, however, has been what some may call “writer’s block”. I would actually call it “fear that I don’t have adequate words”. You see, I started the thankful bee primarily to serve as a light of encouragement to folks who may be troubled or hurting. And frankly, I haven’t even been able to encourage MYSELF lately, let alone any of you. I certainly haven’t felt qualified to guide anyone searching for hope in our weary world. So, I haven’t written any new content recently. Until tonight.
The Christmas Cave
Tonight I took all three of my kids to The Christmas Cave, about two hours south-east from where we live. It’s basically a self-guided holiday light display in the passageways of an underground white gravel mine. Inside among the twinkling lights, decorated Christmas trees and pillar candles lining the dimly-lit path are displays depicting the historical moments surrounding the birth of Jesus. For added atmosphere, holiday music is featured in each area.
I wanted to be in the moment. Truly, I did. I wanted to just relax and enjoy being out with all three of my kids for the first time in a long time. Except I honestly wasn’t. Nope. I was preoccupied with everything weighing on my heart. Burdens with names like “overdue” and “overdrawn”. “Quarantine.” “Loneliness.” “Worry.” Maybe you are acquainted with some of those as well?
Squeaks and stumbles.
One thing that really struck me hard as I walked along that underground gravel path was Luke‘s reaction to the whole event. He was so excited to see the Christmas decorations, and the way the candlelight on the cave walls made our shadows look ten feet tall. He was especially drawn to the lights on the garlands and trees. Luke desperately wanted to walk the entire mile-long trail, his little chilly hand in mine, pointing and making happy squeaks. It didn’t matter to him that his pace was so slow or that he stumbled in the gravel. No, he just wanted to absorb it all.
But Luke’s squeaks and his stumbles were a painful reminder to me that my sweet, joyful little boy has extra struggles to overcome. In the dark of that underground mine, I felt a familiar sting in my heart. A hurt that despite all of my education as a pediatric therapist, and all of the professional help we consume each week, and all of the resources I have scoured, Luke still struggles. He still doesn’t speak. And he still doesn’t walk without falling. And the road ahead of him seems to stretch way out over the horizon where I can’t clearly see his triumphant victory over his earthly disability.
What a contrast Luke and I were in that moment in the Christmas Cave. Each of us putting one foot in front of another to travel along our candle-lit journey. Except my heart was troubled, and his heart was wide with wonder.
And then it happened.
O, Holy Night.
We got to the part of the path with the scene depicting immediately after Jesus’ birth. I pointed out baby Jesus to my baby Luke, and do you know what Luke did? He waved. My squeaking, stumbling little boy waved to baby Jesus.
Oh my goodness, friends, I got tears in my eyes. And I became acutely aware of the familiar Christmas carol playing in the cave at this moment – O, Holy Night. The line from the song goes, “A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices…”
Yes! I am weary, inside and out! All those burdens I called by name earlier? They recently have worn me clear down to a nub. In fact, the entire planet seems to be searching for hope in our weary world.
A thrill of hope.
God broke through my darkness in that underground gravel mine. And He wants to break through your darkness, too. So, He sent a baby. A very special baby. Born in a cave. So that I can have hope. YOU can have hope. The entire weary world can have hope.
And even with the loud clamoring of all of my worries, I can rejoice. I can celebrate my future even if I can’t see it. Luke’s future. The world’s future.
So you see, tonight I got a tender reminder. Tonight I was gently reminded that I don’t have to know all the answers. I don’t have to have a battle plan thoroughly worked out. And I don’t even have to have adequate words. And neither do you. Perhaps all we need is one small flicker of LIGHT in our darkness. One tiny speck of HOPE in our corner.
Keep walking along your gravel path, friend. Keep putting one foot in front of the other, even on the days you feel weary. If all you can manage is a squeak and a stumble, do it. We aren’t meant to languish, searching for hope in our weary world. HOPE has come. HOPE is here.
