“A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.” (“O Holy Night”)

As 2020 comes to a close, our world is most definitely weary and yearning once again for a “new and glorious morn.” Advent is a season to watch and wait, and it feels like now more than ever we hold vigil together, waiting for the dawning of relief and joy. But how do we take hold of the “thrill of hope” we have in Christ and rejoice even in this very moment?

One of my teachers in this is Miriam from the Hebrew Bible. She stands out to me because of the way she picks up a tambourine and dances after she and her Hebrew community escape Egyptian captivity and cross through the Sea of Reeds (Exodus 15:20-21).

Doing what she did would not come naturally for me. If God told me we were on our way to a “land flowing with milk and honey,” I’d want to wait until I got there—until I saw it, until I felt that fertile ground beneath my feet, until I heard no rumble of my captors coming down the road, until I tasted that milk and honey for myself—before I started to dance. I’d want to know that the work was done, the promise was secured, and the hope was realized before I pulled out my tambourine or even let myself exhale.

But Miriam celebrates the goodness that is now here, rather than waiting for the full goodness that is to come. Being on the journey to the promised land—never mind that it will take another 40 years—is reason enough to rejoice. God has already worked wonders, and Miriam is not going to let fear of future unknowns stop her from recognizing them.
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This Advent, how can we take a lesson from Miriam and celebrate the goodness that is already here and the hope we have in Christ?

Nuance. It’s all around us.
In the drops of water that splash on the clay.
In the grooves carved into tree bark.
In the many sounds I hear outside my window.
Some that feel familiar, some that leave me wondering.


I see similar complexities when I reflect on the relationship between Ruth and Naomi.
Ruth’s commitment to align herself with a potential life of pain, loneliness, and instability in order to honor her friend, Naomi, was a heavy choice.


Similarly, we are called to a collective faith which we individually walk out through relationship.
We live alongside humans who are filled with messy layers of thought, emotion, and energy.
Yes, we are uniquely beautiful, but this beauty comes mingled with fear and shame.
And, yet, we are called to love. Like Ruth did.
We love when the receiver may not realize they are still deserving of love.
We follow and we form connections as the Spirit leads, even when this requires unconventionality. Or, silence. Or, bold words.


In this season of murkiness, may God grow you in your ability to love well and to receive love.
In all its nuance.

How are you learning to navigate this murky season? How are you learning to love?

Do you frequently ask yourself, "How am I growing spiritually?" I don't know about you, but I often think more about my flowers or kids growing than I do my spiritual life. I wish this weren't so. But as a mom of two kids with special needs, and being disabled myself, I have firsthand experience with life feeling chaotic and a regular "daily rhythm" being elusive. So I'm grateful for the online tools I've found that help me stay rooted in faith. I hope these suggestions will also help you boost your own spiritual growth as you go through trials or hard times, such as the COVID-19 pandemic.

I'm drawn to two of the most basic spiritual practices: Bible reading and prayer. No matter how crazy life gets, I never want to let go of those. 

Bible Reading
If you find it hard to read your Bible each day, do you know that you can have the YouVersion app read the Bible out loud to you? YouVersion has a few versions of the Bible available (like The Message and the New American Standard Bible) that you can open you can just hit "play" instead of reading the passage yourself. Or you can read the passage it and listen to it simultaneously, helping you get a fuller experience. Alternatively, if you have an Alexa or Echo device, try enabling YouVersion Rest and have the device read you a Psalm. If you don't have an Alexa or Echo device, you can find YouVersion Rest on YouTube. I listen to YouVersion Rest almost every night before I go to bed, and it so relaxing!

Prayer
There are several prayer apps that make praying easier, but one I have recently loved is Lectio 365. In this app, someone guides you through both scripture reading and prayer. There are plenty of pauses for you to be silent and hear God's voice or continue to speak to God on your own. Or if you want to dive in and pray more for the world, you might try Operation World. This app gives you information about a country you can intercede for, and you can then hit the "I am praying" button.

One last way I like to pray--that doesn't require any special app--is by inserting my name in scripture and praying a verse. For instance, if I would pray Hebrews 13:21, it would go as follows: "God of peace, may You equip Andrea with everything good for doing Your will, and may You work in Andrea what is pleasing to You, through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever." 

Bible reading and prayer--they are basic, but essential. And especially in life's chaos, they connect me with Jesus in the way my soul longs for. I hope these suggestions point you to tools that will be helpful to you, or spark your own creative ideas that give a boost to your spiritual health this summer. 

What apps or practices help you stay rooted in faith during chaotic times? ​

​This short poem came into my thoughts a couple of weeks ago, after I watched from our deck as a branch fell to the ground.
 
Pandemic
Yesterday
I stood on the deck
and as I looked out
an oak branch
suddenly
crashed to the ground.
 
My view did not change
much with the dropping
of that one old branch.
But to the bird
whose nest it held
it was
Everything.
 
This happens to me sometimes: A thought immediately forms out of nowhere and becomes something meaningful, something I’m compelled to write down before it flits away. These happenings are Spirit-spoken inspirations, I believe. And this poem felt like true inspiration.
 
We’re living in anxiety-ridden times, cloistered in our homes and yards, alone or with family, awaiting the tsunami of disease. Pestilence—a word I actually looked up last week to see if it applied (it does)—swirls in the air around us and lingers on doorknobs and countertops and light switches. We wash our hands of it. Disinfect. Wait.
 
Reporters and experts and cable news talking heads show us numbers and charts and graphs and statistics and probabilities and percentages until our brains are numb. We simply cannot fathom the destruction this viral wave might bring.
 
I turn again to my first-edition copy of Anne Morrow Lindburgh’s classic, A Gift From the Sea, a treasure I found when packing up my parents' library while helping them downsize. The book was written in the mid-1950s, but feels especially timely in the 21st century. This particular passage continues to speak to me:
 
We are asked today to feel compassionately for everyone in the world; to digest intellectually all the information spread out in public print; and to implement in action every ethical impulse aroused by our hearts and minds. The interrelatedness of the world links us constantly with more people than our hearts can hold. Or rather—for I believe the heart is infinite—modern communication loads us with more problems than the human frame can carry.
 
In these anxious times, in these times when an invisible threat strains our ability to comprehend and drains our emotional energy, I believe we are called to look past the numbers and stats to see the humanity of our (singular) neighbor. As Lindburgh writes, our minds cannot hold all our concerns for humanity; our human frames cannot carry all the problems with which modern communication loads us. So we let our hearts carry what they can. We reach out to one or two. We sit in the silence of an enforced sabbath. We grieve the broken branch, the lost nest, the homeless bird. For the Spirit is an invisible force as well. And the Spirit is near.

In The Call of Stories: Teaching and the Moral Imagination (1989), Robert Coles wrote to physicians about the importance of listening to their patients’ stories. At one point, he referenced the Russian playwright Anton Chekhov about how humans are affected by the things we interact with via “daily hammer-blows,” meaning those things that we encounter day after day. Coles wrote, “The gnawing irony persists that powerful poems and poignant prose can affect us, excite us, cause us to see more clearly, yet not deliver that daily hammer-blow Chekhov prescribed” (p. 197).

Though we sometimes are drawn more to the dramatic experiences of spiritual formation, I have often found myself focusing on the day-to-day experiences of the mundane that impact us as spiritual beings. This leads me to wonder about what the daily hammer-blows of my spiritual life are.

My 2.5-year (so far!) marriage with my wife, Sierra. The work I do as a clinical psychologist, where I am shaped by the work I do, by listening to what I recommend to my clients, and by learning from my clients’ experiences. The service work I do, whether that’s working with children at church, volunteering at my church’s youth group, donating blood, or donating time at a clothing closet. Weekly communal worship services. Time spent in nature. Giving of my time, money, and presence. Stories, including Batman, Star Wars, and Les Misérables.

Though not all of these occur daily, they are consistent, ongoing experiences in my life. How could they not shape who I am and my spiritual life?

I want to work to be more mindful of these daily hammer-blows and cultivate them in a way that lets God’s image shine all the clearer in my life and to give to others out of the blessings these daily hammer-blows bring.
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What are your daily hammer-blows? And how can you recognize and better utilize the humdrum of the everyday to grow in your spirituality?