The Flog – The Fabry Log

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about being grateful for where I am rather than where I’m not. And I’ve realized that leaving things behind means freedom. Facing the truth about yourself and whatever situation you’re in can be difficult, but it doesn’t mean you have to obscure the truth. Being real is not hiding or forgetting. Wholeness means you can equally embrace the past, present, and the future and the truth about all of them.

For example, I was writing a scene today where a man goes into a Subway restaurant for a drink of soda. The face of my son, Colin, flashed in my mind and I had a pang of regret and nostalgia. He used to love getting a little cup of Sprite with a sandwich. Now that he has Type 1 Diabetes, those days are over. Yes, he could have diet sodas, but the health risks outweigh the upside, we think.

What he eats or drinks isn’t the point. The point is his life has been forever altered. He’ll never go a day the rest of his life without thinking about the fact that his pancreas doesn’t work. That’s sad. That’s a loss.

However, thinking about his life now and the way his health has turned around makes me grateful. He gets lots of exercise and enjoys really good food now, not the junk you get in a fast food restaurant. Today we’ll play some basketball and get our heart rates going. Somehow, to say that I’m grateful for this, feels like I’m snatching something from the loss. I’m not giving pain its full due if I see the bright side. But both are true. Colin’s life is altered and he has experienced a great loss. But it’s also true that he’s on a good path.

Perhaps the reason I’m thinking about this is that plaintive baby’s cry in the manger. The cry of a newborn from the pain of birth. Hunger. Was there something more to the cry? They say a mother knows her baby’s cry. Andrea has always known if our kids are hungry or angry by their cries. Did Mary sense something different about the wails of her firstborn son? Perhaps this was part of what she pondered in her heart.

This little baby had stepped from heaven’s shores and the glory of that peace-filled land. In fact, the creator of everything had flown from a land that knew no sin to a landscape where sin had touched everything. The one who had fashioned the stars now lay helpless under starlight. The one who had spoken a word and scattered the angelic host, was now proclaimed as the Savior by those he had created. The earth he had formed held him in that dusty, Middle Eastern village.

Jesus had given up much in order to become man. There was more than divine desire that compelled him on the road he was to travel. It was deep desire from the heart of God to love, to give, for it was in the suffering, the struggle, the laughter and tears and nails and wood and blood that he would do his greatest work. Spit and dirt opened eyes. A touch of his garment led to healing. If he had never made the trip, there would not be redemption or salvation or as much glory due to his name. His mission was rescue. His life was ransom, fully paid.

That story spills over us. Dust and sand and dirt and rocks and trouble everywhere. The past and all the idyllic visions we had about what will be, might be, could be. Today I am listening to my own heart cry for something more. Something that says the past is real and full of loss, and that the future is filled with questions and hardship, but also something good. Indescribable. Whole.

In the suckling child of Bethlehem, in the stillness of that starry night, you and I sit in wonder at the mercy and grace of a God who did not grasp, but who let go of his Father’s hand and grasped the finger of a young mother. He knew there would be such agony and pain. And he did it anyway. He came to us not in spite of our sin and “lostness,” but because of it.

That’s what makes me cry this Christmas. They are tears we share with that baby. That man. With God himself—God with us.