Seasonal Lessons

Chase passed away 6 days before Good Friday, 8 days before Easter - Resurrection Sunday.  John Piper sent Ted a Tweet soon after that included the phrase "Oh, what a season to lose a son."  We had no choice but to have the reality of the season weigh on us.

Before time began God had Good Friday in view.  He planned, before He spoke one piece of creation into being, to sacrifice His only Son, so that a broken people might have fellowship with Him, a holy and perfect and righteous God.  He was willing to have the Son leave His Heavenly home and put on flesh, to walk the Earth as a man for decades.  More than that, He willingly sacrificed His Son - sentencing Him to a death that He didn't deserve.  Sentencing Him to die for a people that hated Him.

I would never do that.  Ever.

As the pain of our loss set in, the magnitude of what God had done kept getting clearer and clearer.  It made me more thankful for the gospel than ever before.  While I was still an enemy of God, out of His great love, God sent the Son to die for me.  He was intimately aware of what it felt like to lose a son - and He endured it all, willingly.  I'll never be able to fully articulate every aspect of what God the Father endured due to the sacrifice of the Son, but I know that it displays a depth of love that is too great to fully comprehend.

And it's through that love that everything I endure is filtered through.  Nothing happens to me that contradicts His love.  That truth doesn't always fully make sense to me, but I lean on it anyway - because it is true.

And now, here we are in the Advent season, celebrating the first coming of Christ as a baby, and looking forward to the second coming of Christ as King.  And again, lessons are heightened because of the season.

As I walk through my church's Advent guide, I'm encouraged to enter back into the anticipation of the Israelites.  A people in darkness had been promised, for centuries, that a light would come into the world, a Savior.  It hasn't been hard to enter into that as we awaited the arrival of our baby.

In the midst of our own season of grief and darkness, very early into it, God placed life in my womb.  He gave us a very tangible hope.  And though this baby was not a promised Messiah that would bring hope to the nations, this baby, a boy, has brought hope and light to our family.

The greatness of the gospel just continues to be revealed to me.  I'll never scale the full heights and depths of the gospel, but it feels like I'm going higher and deeper into it than ever before.  And I pray that others would join me.

So my seasonal lessons are brought full circle.  I was reminded that Good Friday is the reason for Christmas.  Thirty-three years after Mary birthed Christ and laid Him in that manger, she'd witness His brutal, torturous death.

She birthed Him for that horrific day - a day that would mean good news for the world.

Christ was born to die.

Wow.
Amazing.
Grace.

38 weeks 1 day

That's how much time had passed since I'd changed a diaper.  Rocked a baby in the glider.  Buckled two kids into the car.

But on Sunday, December 15 at 4:25 pm we welcomed our third son, Callen Isaiah Anderson, into our family, ushering me back into diaper changes, and glider rocking, and buckling two kids into two car seats.  And I can't even put into words how amazing that feels.

The birth of Callen in one sense ends our season of empty arms.  I have a baby to carry and to nurse.  Ted as a newborn son to rock.  Jaden has a little brother to once again read books to and kiss all the time.  We are all beyond ecstatic.

But the birth of Callen doesn't fully end the season of empty arms, because Callen is not Chase.  And until I get to Heaven, I won't ever have Chase in my arms again.  So my arms are still empty - they still miss Chase like crazy - and they always will.

Callen is a sweet sweet gift.  The Lord has already graciously used him to provide such tangible restoration.  He is a beam of light in the midst of incredible darkness.  And I look forward to every day I get to have him in my arms.