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I’ve been packing up our house over the past couple of weeks. Endless boxes of books (seriously, I need to get rid of some theology books), paintings coming down off the walls, trash bags of clothes, heirlooms and artifacts carefully wrapped then disappearing into plastic tubs. Our home slowly becoming more and more sparse, barren, like the day we first moved in. Like a light slowly dimming. Soon all that will be left are memories as we lock the yellow front door for the final time and drive away.

In the midst of all the sorting and taping and labeling with my faithful sharpie, I have found myself wondering what it was like for Mary and Joseph as they prepared to head to Bethlehem all those years ago. How long did they have to pack up their home? Did they even have a home? Did they agonize over what to bring and what to leave behind? Were they lucky enough to have family who were willing to watch their things while they were away, or had the scandal of Mary’s pregnancy caused too big a rift for such a kindness?  Were they planning to be gone for a week, a month, a year? How much stuff could Joseph fit on the donkey alongside pregnant Mary? What travel snacks did they bring?

As the days before their departure dwindled, was their enough time to say their good byes, or were their old friends painfully absent, afraid to be connected with the scandalous couple? Did they have any inkling of just how much their lives were about to change as they embarked on this new journey?

How did Mary and Joseph handle the stress of packing up their lives at such a tenuous moment? Did their anxiety slip out in snippy comments and huffy looks (this never happens in our house…). Did Joseph find himself waking up in the middle of the night with his mind racing with a million questions and things to add to his to-do list? Was there the ever-looming dread about finances and how they could afford this unexpected trip?

I find myself carrying many questions as our family prepares for our journey to Kenya. Will we be safe? Will we like our new home? Will we make friends? Are we crazy for uprooting ourselves in the middle of a global pandemic? Will it be worth it?

Maybe this is twisted, but I have found comfort this Advent in imagining that Mary and Joseph’s journey to Bethlehem was fraught with questions. Not just the question of where they would stay, but all the other questions along the way. The questions that could not be neatly boxed up, labeled and packed away.

We find ourselves living in a year and a world filled with questions, and I’m grateful that there is space in the Christmas story for our questions. Jesus arrives in a sea of questions and unknowns with all manner of unexpected twists and turns. When he is born they don’t even know where to put him! Immanuel, God with us, is not a guarantee that we will get all the answers we want. It is a promise that for those of us who are willing to embark on the journey of faith, God is with us in the midst of our many questions.

Perhaps this year you are not journeying to Kenya. Perhaps due to Covid this is the first time in recent memory that Christmas will not involve any sort of a journey at all. No going to visit friends or families, no Christmas parties, no caroling. More staying and sitting and staring at screens that you are used to. More unanswered questions and uncertainty than normal and a harder time finding hope, and peace and joy than in Advents past.

Friends, may we be reminded that God was present in the mist of the uncertainties and the hardships of that first Christmas, and in the midst of this difficult Advent season God is with us still. So, bring your boxes of questions and fears and disappointments and place them at the foot of the manger. Immanuel is waiting.

The Stories we carry end up carrying us. They shape us and form us like clay. I am grateful to carry many incredible stories from my childhood. Stories of seeing the world and growing up in a diverse, multi-cultural community amidst the breathtaking mountains of Papua New Guinea. These stories have formed my view of myself, the world, and my place in it.

These stories are sacred. They are the stories that have carried me through the difficult times. I go back to them when I need to find myself. Over the past few months I have been part of a diverse community of adult third culture kids (TCK’s) who grew up in Papua New Guinea. Together we have been looking at the ways in which race and privilege impacted our experiences growing up and permeated our most sacred stories and memories.

Much of the work we have been doing is intentionally looking back at our sacred, formative stories through a new lens. We have been challenged to ask new questions that we didn’t know to ask before. We have been encouraged to see things that we were blind to, and we have been forced to reckon with the painful truth that there is more to our sacred stories than we ever imagined. There are layers and complexities that many of us were woefully unaware of, or turned a blind eye to. There are ways in which our sacred stories and beautiful memories came at the expense of others, leaving them with scars inside and out.

This work of reflection is soul-wearying. I can only imagine the toll on those who lived out the injustices I am just now learning about and coming to reckon with. It has been heart-breaking to hear the stories of others who grew up in the same space I did, but experienced a very different reality than the rosy one I grew up with. As stories have been shared and voices have emerged to speak that have long been silenced and marginalized, I have been forced to question and re-evaluate my own stories. Under closer scrutiny I have found that the sacred stories I carry are cracked and incomplete. There are pages and chapters missing that tell a much bigger much more challenging narrative.

I find myself, along with others, asking new and challenging questions. How do I affirm the good of my childhood while also acknowledging the bad? How do I truthfully reshape my stories and resculpt the world I knew? Now that I see with new eyes and know in new ways, what am I called to do?

In the midst of asking these questions about growing up overseas in public forums there has been some backlash. People have demanded that we stop meddling, stop ruining their pristine childhoods, stop questioning their sacred stories. Some current missionaries have reached out saying we should stop focusing on the bad and just focus on the good. We should stop asking these types of questions and be grateful for the opportunity that we were given, but their words and demands ring hollow: fake, afraid, dishonest.

It is precisely this type of thinking that is so damaging, this need to label something as all good or all bad. This isn’t Disney. Real life just isn’t that simple or neat. Life is messy, and we as humans, despite the stories we might carry about ourselves, are a mixture of good and evil.

My hope is that we will learn to walk the middle path of celebrating the good parts of our stories while also wrestling with the ways in which our lives have and continue to cause damage to others. I pray that we, no matter where we grew up or where we live now, would look and see that no stories are so sacred that they cannot be questioned and re-evaluated. If our stories are so fragile, then perhaps they are already broken.

So friends, in the midst of the growing global awareness of the pervasive evils of racial injustice and systemic poverty, may we not turn a blind eye to the painful and difficult stories swirling around us. May we not ignorantly overlook the ways in which our sacred stories intermingle with the stories of others’ suffering and dehumanization. May we not use the privilege afforded us to focus only on that which is good and beautiful, but may we instead turn and listen and learn and grow.

May we surrender our sacred stories. May we add to them, amend them and pick up new stories to carry. I’m slowly coming to realize that my stories are too small. I need the stories of others to carry me into the future that I hope for and imagine. A future that is bigger and brighter and more beautiful than the sacred stories of my past.

Lydia informed me this morning as we were driving to her preschool that she didn’t need me to walk her to her classroom. She was ready to do it by herself. This took me by surprise. This newfound confidence and independence were a far cry from last year’s version of Lydia who often did not want to let go when I gave her a goodbye hug at drop off. The little girl standing in front of me was different. She’d picked out her outfit, dressed herself, gotten her own cereal, and belted herself into her car seat.

We arrived at preschool, and I was curious to see if she’d follow through with her words. We held hands, as we always do, and walked to the outside door. Lydia stopped, let go of my hand and faced me. “Daddy, why don’t I just give you my hug now.”

“OK, Sweetie.”  She wrapped her tiny little arms around me and gave me a quick squeeze. Then we stepped into the large lobby where the check-in lady took her temperature. She was good to go. Her classroom was down the long hall and around the corner. This was the moment.

Lydia looked at me. I looked back. She didn’t move.

“Do you want me to walk with you?” I asked.

She tugged on the straps of her bright pink, sparkly backpack. “No, I’m OK.”

With that, she was off. Her tiny legs striding down the hall not once looking back. I watched her go until she rounded the corner; then I burst into tears.

OK, I didn’t burst into tears, but on the inside I did. Big, ugly dad tears. And so it begins, I thought to myself, and so it begins.

 I walked back to the car and sat there for a few silent minutes. This felt like a massive moment. It happened so unexpectedly. I wasn’t prepared, and yet as a parent this is what I’ve been preparing Lydia for. Preparing her to become her own person. Preparing her to be brave and venture out into the world and down the long halls of life and around the corners into the unknown without me.

It’s such a strange thing this whole parenting experience. I feel within myself the yearning for my kids to grow up and become independent people. I see that as part of my role as a parent. It’s my job to help launch them, but I also long to be needed and central in their lives. There are moments when I swear I cannot play one more round of Candyland or house, and I just want Lydia to go and play by herself. Today I wanted the opposite. I wanted her to need me to make it down the hall and around the corner. I wasn’t ready for her newfound level of independence.

As a parent, I wrestle with those competing forces inside me. The pull to protect and control and the desire to release and empower. The struggle is real. The fear is real. The wondering if I’m doing it right is real. Being a parent is hard work- emotionally, physically, spiritually. You name it.

So as I’m sitting here writing I have to remind myself that Lydia did something brave today. She stepped out and took a risk. Now I have to do something brave too. I have to let her keep walking and keep growing and keep blossoming because that is love.

These are the reflections of a stay-at-home dad, or soon to be mostly stay-at-home dad. Beginning this week, I have a small part-time gig lined up at a local church. One of the parts of my daily routine with Lydia is to brush her hair. Lydia has inherited her mother’s wild, curly hair. I learned early in my marriage not to call it “frizzy!”

Lydia has this little pink spray bottle and comb that sit atop her dresser, and every morning we engage in the ritual of taming her tangled locks. It can be quite the time-consuming endeavor. It’s like a miracle in reverse the way her hair manages to tie itself into knots while she sleeps each night. Every morning she wakes, and her hair needs assistance. A few squirts of water, some good chit chat, and the working of the brush through her hair to get out all the tangles.

Each day brings with it the need for more brushing. More untangling. More work and effort so that she can have beautiful hair. After the 4^th day of doing this, I found myself getting annoyed. Isn’t there some way to just fix this so that her hair doesn’t keep getting tangled? (maybe there is and feel free to share) Isn’t there some simple one-time fix that will work forever so that she wakes up without knots?

As I sat impatiently brushing her hair I realized that this was a perfect metaphor for sin. I so often wish that I could just sprits my sin away with a quick prayer, read a few Bible verses and have it disappear forever. I often wish it was that easy, but the truth is that it’s not. The tangles of sin, pride, fear, the need for control, unforgiveness and racism show up each morning. The temptation to love myself and not my neighbor is a knot in my soul that doesn’t disappear once and for all. It is a daily challenge. It requires work and time and is sometimes painful. The knots in my soul are far more unruly and messy than the knots in Lydia’s hair.

As I reflected further, I recognized that Lydia needs someone to help her with her hair. There are some parts that she can brush by herself, but to get out all the knots she needs someone else. There are places that she cannot see. There are areas that she is blind too,  so there is partnership and trust required for the daily eradication of knots.

It is the same with sin. Overcoming sin is not something I can do by myself. I too have blind spots and places I can’t reach. I need the power and presence of the Holy Spirit. I need Godly friends who will pick up the brush and point out areas that I have overlooked or have been unwilling or unable to see. And it’s not enough to do this every once in a while. I need daily communion with God and others.

So, I’m choosing to make the ritual of hair brushing a sacred one. A daily reminder of my own need for help and healing and wholeness so that I might live the good and beautiful life to which God has called me. I pray that you too will find small, sacred spaces to connect with God and recognize your need for help. A knotty soul is much worse than knotty hair.

Yesterday marked the start of my second week being a stay-at-home dad. Something my wife did for years, and now the roles are flipped as she’s working. I can tell already that this new gig is going to teach me a lot about myself, and not necessarily all things I want to learn. It seems that school has begun for everyone now, myself included.

One of the first moments for learning and self-reflection took place in the afternoon. Lydia and I were outside playing make-believe. Per usual, she was princess Leia, I was Han Solo, and we were getting married. Lydia was busy preparing the slushies for our wedding while I got fitted for my tux. I set my phone down on the front stoop to fully embrace my role as Leia commanded me to go to the dressing room located by one of our giant oak trees.

Off I ambled, and by the time I returned decked out in my fancy invisible duds, I noticed that my phone was gone. I looked around, patted my pockets. I swear I’d put it right on the stoop. I looked at Lydia and asked if she’d seen my phone. She smiled at me, put her hands on her hips, and then declared with great sass. “No phones allowed at the wedding. They are much too distracting for adults. I put it away. You can have it back when we are done.” She punctuated this statement with an emphatic stare down.

I took a sharp inhale of breath. Was she being Lydia or was she being Leia? Was she talking to Han or was she talking to me? Perhaps she was talking to both.

I’m only a few days into this stay-at-home gig, but already I have felt the growing itch for connection to the outside world. It’s amazing how easily my phone finds its way into my hands when there is a spare second. Gotta check Facebook or Instagram or ESPN. Gotta make sure the world is still out there beyond the four walls of the house.

Sadly, the constant need for those external connections stops me from being present. So much so, that Lydia has already picked up on it. Is she not more valuable than a like on Facebook or an article on a random sports athlete? Is this time and space with her not sacred space waiting to be claimed? It doesn’t necessarily feel that way when I’m playing Han for the thousandth time chugging back another invisible gravity grape slushy.

Lesson 1 of week 1 is the importance of presence. Not just for Lydia but also for me. To regain and recapture the ability to be fully in the moment. To notice and enjoy the small but beautiful things that take place in the midst of the ordinary: playing make believe, folding clothes and packing lunches. It’s too easy and too natural for me to look to escape these moments. Escape to social media platforms and other people’s lives and other people’s stories all the while missing out on my own life and my own story and the goodness of God.

I’m going to work on putting down my phone so Lydia doesn’t have to hide it. I’m going to work on embracing this unexpected season at home that I have been given. Raise your invisible glass of slushy, and join me in a toast. “To being present.” May we each strive to be more present right where God has placed us.