Living a Yellow Light Life

This "do not be afraid" thing that the angels use as a salutary greeting in the Christmas story is a challenging statement. God intersects humanity, he sends heavenly messengers, and people's lives are turned upside down.

I would like to think if I had a heavenly messenger, or better yet, an ensemble of alien singers, I would be willing to be upheaved, (this should be a word) but I tend to like things neat.

Tidy. Controllable.

God has never asked me to do any of the unimaginable things he asked of Mary or Jospeh, the wisemen or the shepherds. The most recent, gentle prodding I felt was to talk to a stranger. Simple.

And I remained silent.

I realize some grandparents jump into this grandparenting thing with both feet and completely deck out a second nursery in their home for the coming and going of the next generation, but we are two years into this grandparenting adventure and I just got a highchair. The next item I decided on was a Pack-and-Play (portable crib for the non-grandparent-initiated).

Before purchasing the Pack-and-Play, I decided to check out Craig's List, but the equipment in the ads looked old and worn. I popped up one more ad that advertised the P-n-P as "like new". The pics looked promising, the house was in my zip code and the seller promised to take $10 off the price.

I headed over.

A young woman greeted me - all long legs and willowy arms with straight blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. "Do you want to see it set up?" she asked as we headed into their garage.

As she unpacked, unrolled, and popped open the Pack-and-Play, I realized it didn't just look new, it was new. Never used.

"Why do you have a new Pack-and-Play?" I looked up briefly, eyes shadowed by falling hair.

"The baby died," she said. She said it clinically. Brief. Short. But I heard the ripped off bandaid over a gaping wound.

"I'm so sorry."

"It's OK."

But it's not OK. I know. Two-plus decades later, I remember the words, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hartke, but we can't find a heartbeat."

I remember leaving the hospital, angry that the sun still dared to shine. Overwhelmed by grief. But I said none of this to this young woman. I didn't mention my own loss or pain. I didn't offer hope or speak of faith.

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I found myself tiptoeing away from her pain.

I pulled out my bills and unfolded the cash. We hauled the Pack-and-Play to the car.

I drove home.

Do you ever feel like you live with a yellow light on your soul?

A caution? A pause? A reluctance to invade someone else's pain?

I do.

"Did you offer to pray for her?" my husband asked me later, the extrovert who lives a green light life, unlike me, the introvert, analyzing and guarded.

In the pause, in the difficult, this is my constant wrestling where I try to push words around my personality. I wait, yellow light cautious and the moment is so often lost.

This is my challenge - NOT to be an extrovert, no, but when I feel that nudge, that prompting, that intersecting of God, to take a step forward, not a step back. To embrace, not ignore, someone else's story.

To live the yes.

Jesus, Emanuel, God with us.

God in man, not just one step into humanity's story, but ALL IN!

Fully human, yet fully God.

Baby birthed in amniotic wetness. God all in to mess and pain and confusion of earthly life.

Jesus living the "yes" of God so loved the world and when my heart assented to this life of faith, I agreed to unwrap the yes, to see and live in a world through God's eyes.

Jesus came wearing baby skin. I , image bearer of God, come also with skin - his hands, his feet, his touch in a world of painful stories.

And somehow, some way, God moves through me -- a person, yellow light cautious -- in this world of hurting people.

This. Yeah, this. Amazes me.

I want to unwrap a bigger yes.

________________________________

Yesterday was chemo day for Mom. Nothing earth shattering. Boring chemo - such a nice combination. We also chatted with the doc about pain management, since Monday was probably Mom's worse day to date in regard to pain.  Praying his suggestions are effective.

Sister Renae was the last of Thanksgiving company to head home, leaving yesterday morning.

Four generations. 19 people. 5 days. Priceless.

Working on Christmas Letters. Mom would have loved to write personal notes on them all, but writing and typing are difficult since her stroke, which is a hard loss since she was the bridge and communicator to 5 generations of our large, extended family. She still loves receiving emails, cards and letters.

Filling boxes for two weeks of meds - supplements and 16 prescriptions.

Some of many, many luminarias last year that honored my parents. If you purchase luminarias online, you choose the message and someone on the luminaria committee will make the bag for you.