Marveling

Over the past month as we've tumbled together emotions and events to contemplate both Troy's death and Christ's birth, I'm continually struck by two contrasting thoughts:

1. Grief and its threats always temper even our happiest moments and yet
2. Joy always cuts a rough valley through pain

The kids and Brian and I began memorizing Luke 2 long before we started eating turkey and, as with anything you do or see day after day, you begin to notice all sorts of minutia that previously escaped your notice. In a passage that we tend to associate with great news and great joy, there is also great fear and sorrow. The shepherds feared the angels. They didn't just "reverence" them in our postmodern way of dumbing down the word "fear." No, they were pee-in-their-pants AFRAID. Then Simeon turned around from his beautiful prayer of blessing the Savior and "blessed" Mary and Joseph with the news that a sword would pierce Mary's soul "that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed." And then Jesus had the audacity to leave his parents for three days. Have you ever thought you'd lost your child for even 15 minutes? We have--TWICE--and both instances leave me panic-stricken in the remembering. It seems that after the "Glory to God in the highest and, on earth, peace, goodwill toward men" there's not much left but numb terror and disasters of the spirit--and Luke isn't even the one mentioning "Rachel weeping for her children" because every Jewish boy under the age of two was cut down.

Yet in the midst of their palpable fear and pain, Luke tells us that the shepherds were glorifying and praising God. He says that everyone who heard of Jesus' birth from the shepherds MARVELED. He tells us that Mary and Joseph MARVELED when Simeon blessed them. He tells us that the people who heard Jesus were ASTONISHED and that his parents were AMAZED when they heard their son speaking in the temple. Luke says twice that Mary "kept all these things and pondered them in her heart."

I'm not sure what to say about this past month. We are still hurting in the loss of Troy and in our compassion for Ginger and the kids. Troy's funeral was perhaps the hardest thing we've ever done--not only because we were dealing with death but because we were dealing with shock at the same time. We miss our friend and some days it seems that the memories will never fade enough to alleviate the pain. To be certain, Troy's death tempered all of the exquisite joy and warmth that belongs to Christians at Christmas; but I was most especially aware, in most coherent moments, of God's incredible ability to comfort. I watched Ginger go through a memorial service attended by 1800 people and a beautiful but remarkably public funeral with the utmost grace and courage. We moved through week after week marveling at the "realness" of God's presence and pondering much in our hearts. There was so much more joy in the turn of our daughter's curls, in Gresham's snaggletooth grin, in Seth's precocious looks ("you and I are in this joke together, Mom"), in Brandt's deadpan imitation of Luigi, in the glory of a new little Bergeron--Sophia Faith, in the fact that Brian was with us in person at Christmas. "Marvel" is the only word to describe the mix of thoughts that continually ran through our minds. There really are no guarantees in this life--except the one that brings more pure joy than any other ... "and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age. Amen." (Matthew 28:20)