Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God.
There are Advent moments when you’d like nothing more than to order a Christmas miracle.
The one you need when it feels like no one really sees you.
No one sees how alone you really feel. How overwhelmed by the work and unappreciated by the people.
No one sees that you just want someone to cup your face and look into your eyes and say your name from somewhere deep inside, like a calling home, like a belonging, like a holding that has you around all the fragile places and won’t leave you.
Some seasons are Naomi times. You ventured out with those hopes, full and you feel you’ve been brought back empty . . . disillusioned, withered dry.
In some seasons, for all their gloss and glitz, it can be achingly hard to find gifts, and days can feel like fists. Naomi she goes home bitter. Orpah goes home to begin over. And Ruth goes on believing she will find home.
Maybe sometimes the miracle begins by growing not in bitterness but in faithfulness because, for all its supposed sophistication, cynicism is simplistic.
In a fallen world, how profound is it to see the cracks?
The radicals and the reflective, the Ruths and the revolutionaries; they are the ones on the road, in the fields, on the wall, pointing to the dawn of the new Kingdom coming, pointing to the light that breaks through all things broken, pointing to redemption always rising and the Advent coming again.
Brilliant people don’t deny the dark; they are the ones who never stop looking for His light in everything.
In this season when the hustle can be a distraction what do you see that reminds of Jesus?