LOVE: God's Finest Gift

By Bob Henderson

On this Christmas Eve, I hope you’ll join me in pausing to appreciate the blessings of the year past. This year, in particular, has been rich for our family. Children have been home for holidays, friendships have been borne and renewed, work has been rewarding and good health in full supply. We’re grateful to our bones.

One particular blessing this year was the opportunity to take a sabbatical. For ten weeks in the summer, my schedule was open to do as I pleased, and I certainly tried to make the most of it. I enjoyed a week of solitude while hiking and biking in the high desert country of Utah. I hibernated in a log cabin in North Carolina and luxuriated in fine literature. I renewed old friendships across the south and even fulfilled a life-long dream of hiking the Dolomites while staying in old farmhouses (called refugios) and meeting other hikers from across the globe. Each experience exceeded every hope and expectation.

So, when I was asked, upon return, to name my single favorite experience on sabbatical, I paused to scan all my memories and was surprised by tears welling up in my eyes when I realized my answer. “Sharing dinner with my whole family,” I said. “One night I sat down with Suzanne, our three children, as well as my mother, and we shared fine food and great laughter for nearly two hours. It was lovely, sacred, nothing less than God’s finest gift.” I loved every minute of it.

Of all the things Christmas is about -- and it is about a lot, gifts, memories, rituals, faith -- more than anything it’s about love. Love born into our midst. Love shared with dear ones. Love expressed to new family members. Love recalled for family members no longer with us. It’s about love, God’s love born into the world that equips us to love fearlessly, love with abandon.

German theologian Helmut Thielicke put it beautifully. "All loving,” he said, “is ultimately thanksgiving for the fact that we ourselves have been loved.” (The Waiting Father, p.168)

The whole foundation of Christmas -- God’s son being born into the world -- reminds us that we are loved. The birth of the baby, when we understand it as a gift that conveys God’s unconditional love, says to you and me -- you matter, you have value, your life is worth my love.

HOPE: It Only Takes a Minute

Read: I Thessalonians 4:13-18

By Addie Rising

"But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters, about those who have died, so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope." I Thessalonians 4:13

When you’re seven years old, a minute is an eon and an hour is an eternity … which makes sense since a seven year old only has about 32,000 hours for reference. I, on, the other hand … well, I might break my calculator. Let’s just say it’s a few thousand more. But these minutes, as a parent, can elicit all kinds of emotion: joy, anger, amusement, grief and, more often than not, hope.
Each morning during the school year, once the rush to get out the door is finished and we’re confined to the car for the five-minute ride to school, my seven-year-old son, Joseph, has my undivided attention. Our discussions vary widely from the mundane – “did you brush your teeth?” -- to borderline-philosophical – “so if clean my room better than my sisters, am I a better person?” – to complete silliness – “Knock, knock …”.

And then sometimes I get, “I miss Papa Alan.”

When you’re seven, you speak of lost loved ones – especially ones you have never met – the same way you would speak of a family member who lives far away that you’ve never met or have met, but you can’t quite recall the meeting. You’ve missed the loss and grief aspects of death, but the missing and the longing aspects are still there. Joseph will talk about how he misses his Uncle Andy (who lives in California) or his Papa Alan (my father-in-law, who passed away years before Joseph was born). The reference is the same. My response, however, is not. “Hopefully, we’ll get to see Uncle Andy soon.” Because, this can still happen. As for Papa Alan, well, Joseph will never meet him. Joseph will never know Papa Alan the same way my husband knew him or the way I knew him. But I’m still hopeful. Hopeful that we can teach Joseph about his Papa Alan through stories and pictures to help fill that void that he feels, a void we all feel this time of year.

So our morning five-minute commute to school has expired and as we say our goodbyes and I watch Joseph skip into the school hallway, I smile. I head to work filled with hope and am grateful I have another 30 eons in the car to think about my family -- past, present, near and far.

Sign up now to receive Covenant's Daily Advent Devotional via email.