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How Beautiful on the Mountain

Tracey Dyck 10 Comments

[Graphic mine; image via Unsplash]

Merry Christmas, my friends!

This time of year likes to sneak up on me, even though I should see it coming. (Y’know, it’s not like it lands on December 25th every single year.) Now that I’m on Christmas break and can forget about college for a couple of weeks, I’ve been basking in a quieter pace at home with my family. Somehow the rushing around to mail off Christmas letters and pick up the last few gifts doesn’t feel all that crazy when there are no more textbooks to study.

Something I’ve been doing in my quiet time with God is read a series of verses picked out for Advent. My Bible has a convenient list of suggested readings, and it’s only a verse or two each day, so I get to camp out on each one for a while.

Several days ago, this was the day’s passage. It’s something I’ve read plenty of times before, but it stuck out in a new way to me.

Ah, how beautiful the feet of those on the mountain who declare the good news of victory, of peace and liberation, the voice that calls to Zion, that chosen place for God’s promise people, announcing to them, “Your God rules!” (Isaiah 52:7, The Voice translation)

What are you declaring?

I want my whole life to proclaim the good news of victory, peace, and liberation that’s found in Jesus. In December we sing, “Go tell it on the mountain, over the hills and everywhere.” But where have I been telling it? And what have I been telling?

Do people hear God’s love when I’m standing in line at the mall? Chatting with friends on Instagram? Speaking to family and relatives?

Everywhere we go, our words, demeanor, and actions are a package deal. Together, they’re communicating something twenty-four seven. So what are we saying?

Are we communicating stress with our frazzled tone and frantic pace? Are we sharing frustration and discord with our snappish replies?

Or could we perhaps slow down long enough to reconnect to peace–to the source of it, our Prince of Peace–and let our lives sing out a refrain of victory?

I get it. It’s hard to do when all month, our to-do lists have grown longer instead of shorter. It’s hard when polarizing family members are placed in the same room and expected to get along. It’s hard when a loved one is in the hospital. It’s hard when bills are stacked on the counter and the boxes under the tree number fewer than you wish. It’s hard when you’re picking up the slack for others going through crises, or you’re sifting through difficult memories of Christmases past, or things just aren’t falling into place.

Those things are real. They hurt, and they’re hard. But the Prince of Peace came for you, too. And the beautiful thing is that by welcoming Him into your brokenness, you let His light shine through to everyone around you. They will see the peace you carry amidst the darkness. Ah, what wonder. A small and humble miracle. A declaration of good news proclaimed from the mountain for all to hear.

Merry Christmas, friends. May this peace envelop your hearts no matter what is surrounding your life today.

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Dust & Clay

Tracey Dyck 20 Comments
Photo by Paul Robert on Unsplash // Graphics mine

On the days you feel lifeless
Hopeless
Breathless

You are more.

When all you hold is dust
Sand
Ash

There is more.

When your mind whispers lies
And the mirror tells you lies
And the world screams lies

Look for more.

Still, Eternal One, You are our Father.

We are just clay, and You are the potter.

We are the product of Your creative action, shaped and formed into something of worth.

Isaiah 64:8 (The Voice)

Clay is common. It’s dirt. It’s walked on, buried, and disregarded. It’s worthless.

But the moment an artist scoops clay onto the potter’s wheel and shapes it into something, that clay is imbued with value. Someone with expertise and creative vision has turned it into a work of art, and the artist’s fingerprints are all over it. It has become a beautiful expression of the creator’s heart.

It matters.

One day the Eternal God scooped dirt out of the ground,

sculpted it into the shape we call human,

breathed the breath that gives life into the nostrils of the human,

and the human became a living soul.”

Genesis 2:7 (The Voice)

Photo by Quino Al on Unsplash
You are not worth anything based on what you are made of. You are worth something based on who made you. The Artist’s signature on your soul is living proof. The breath in your lungs–which isn’t yours–is proof.

I am dust

You are God

I am breathless

Till You fill my lungs

–Dust, Steffany Gretzinger

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I feel dusty sometimes. No matter how hard I try, my earthiness persists. I would rather be a vessel of polished marble or wondrous crystal, but instead I am a jar of clay. Yet I am worth more than a marble vase created by an amateur sculptor, because I was crafted by an expert artisan, and somehow He saw fit to place the treasure of His life within me.

But this beautiful treasure is contained in us–cracked pots made of earth and clay–so that the transcendent character of this power will be clearly seen as coming from God and not from us.

…So we have no reason to despair. Despite the fact that our outer humanity is falling apart and decaying, our inner humanity is breathing in new life every day.

2 Corinthians 4:7 & 16 (The Voice)

Breathe life today, friend. Walk through the dust and keep your chin up, because you are made worthy. You are an exclusive art exhibit on display in this world, authenticated by the Artist’s unmistakeable touch.
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Remember in the Dark

Tracey Dyck 20 Comments

“Don’t forget in the darkness what you learned in the light.”

I first read that quote (originally by Joseph Bayly, it appears) in Circles of Seven by Bryan Davis. At least that’s where I think I read it. It was so long ago that time and frequent recollection have blurred out the quote’s origin. But the truth of it remains clear in my heart.

I’ve been grateful to live a pretty amazing twenty-two years so far. I can’t say I’ve had a hard life; all I have to do is look around and see countless people with struggles more difficult than my own. But not one of us slips through this world unscathed. We all weather storms of varying magnitudes. I, too, have faced looming shadows and endless valleys.

And it is in the midst of the darkness that we forget.

It’s easy to remember in the light. It’s easy to recall the truth of who we are and the truth of the God we follow when the reminders are as warm and near as the sun shining on our faces. But when night falls, oh, how quickly we forget. We panic, groping blindly for a corner in which to hide. We cry, fear clawing up our backs. We stumble on, wandering and getting lost in the blackness. We forget so quickly that we are children of light.

But faith is the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen. Did you get that? Faith is the substance and evidence of what you cannot see. It’s the paradox of holding an intangible thing, of perceiving what is not immediately visible. It is real. It’s not some wayward fancy. It’s not a lure-less hook tossed into the sea in the mere hopes that it will catch a fish.

It is real.

When you go to bed at night and flick off the lights, does that mean your room ceases to exist because you can no longer see it? Of course not. Sight has nothing to do with the existence of a thing. It is there regardless of whether you see it or not. But it takes a steady belief to remember that when the lights go out and your eyes fail you.

Memory is a fickle thing. Is it just me, or do you ever look at something to memorize it–be it a review sheet at school or a book cover or a name or a number or a recipe–and forget it two minutes later? “What was that again?” And you go back to check. This kind of repetition is what we need in the moment we’re plunged into shadows, when our minds go blank and the fear wells up. Go back and remember. What was it you learned in the light? What was it you saw and felt and knew? Isn’t that true today, right now, even if you don’t see it in front of you? Go back. Remember. Remember. Remember.

What was true in yesterday’s sunrise is true in today’s midnight. And it will still be true when the sun rises again.

I’m still standing here // No, I didn’t disappear // Now the lights are on // See, I was never gone

(Never Gone by Colton Dixon)

When He feels far away, He is near, as close as He’s ever been. When everything crumbles around you, there is a rock beneath your feet. When confusion clouds your mind, you will hear a voice behind you saying, “This is the way; walk in it.”

“Your word is a lamp for my steps; it lights the path before me.”

(Psalm 119:105)

The thing is, you can see that light if you choose to. It’s on a different frequency than the physical light around you, and sometimes it takes a focused effort on your part to switch to that frequency, to see with eyes of faith. But it’s there, and it’s real. The unseen really is more real than what is seen.

So today, dear soul, wherever you are and however dark it may be, never ever ever EVER forget what you have learned in the light. Hold it close to your heart. That candle will erupt into a torch, and then a burning wildfire, before long.

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Wonder in the Ordinary

Tracey Dyck 22 Comments
[image via Pinterest; graphic mine]

I’ve been moving too fast to think much about Christmas–I mean really think about it, settle into the Scriptures, stare out the snowy window, and journal whatever comes to mind. I plan to make time for that soon. In the meantime, though, a single thought has nestled into my heart. A tiny thought. Not a new thought or flashy thought, just a true one. In fact, this little thought starts with a single word:

ordinary

After being repeated for millennia, the Christmas story is sometimes glossed over like a too-beautiful-to-touch trinket we bring out once a year to place on a shelf where we can admire it from afar. At times I forget how very humble, tangible, and imperfect it all was. How very ordinary.

Mary, an ordinary young woman. She was probably going about her wedding preparations like any other fiancée at the time would have done. Maybe she was planning the feast or washing dishes or sweeping the floor when an angel interrupted her ordinary day and dropped life-shattering news into her lap.

Joseph, an ordinary young man. Also preparing for his upcoming wedding. Startled by Mary’s news that she was pregnant, of all outrageous things. And then an ordinary night gave way to a decidedly extraordinary vision confirming Mary’s words.

A census. A dusty travel, uncomfortable and inconvenient. (Surely we’ve all been there? Road-weary and impatient and wanting nothing more than a meal and a familiar bed?)

A stable with ordinary animals, ordinary stink, ordinary cold. Nothing special about it at all, except for the baby born inside.

Shepherds–oh, the shepherds. I’ve always been fascinated by them most of all. These men weren’t all that high on the social ladder. I don’t imagine they made much money at their jobs. Just think–long hours out in the elements. Smelly, bleating sheep all around. Sore feet in worn sandals. Only the stars above their heads as they stared blearily into the darkness, trying to stay awake and watch for predators. I’m sure this particular nightly watch looked and felt and smelled much like any other, with the same old frustrations, little pleasures, and predictable routine. It was an ordinary night. Perhaps boring. Quite likely unremarkable.

That is, until the heavens exploded with light and song and the kind of news that drives you to your knees.

Emmanuel–God with us.

After half a millennia of utter silence between God and man, even the staunchest believer might have wondered if the faith of their history was little more than a fairy tale, or if God was ever planning to speak again. Maybe He’d moved on. Lost interest. Shut mankind out. Forgotten the rescue He promised.

But no, not even close. On this ordinary night, above an ordinary field, an indescribable army of angels sang of the long-awaited Answer.

I have to smile at what the first angel announcer said: “You will know you have found Him when you see a baby, wrapped in a blanket, lying in a feeding trough.” (Luke 2:12, the Voice)

He didn’t announce a king or conquering warrior. He didn’t point the way toward a coronation ceremony or a battlefield or a palace or even a busy corner of the city.

The angel sent the shepherds to look for an inconspicuous newborn, wrapped in a definitely not new blanket, sleeping in a rough-hewn, straw-filled feeding trough. A kid in a barn. That was Jesus: fresh from heaven, expelled into an ordinary, messed up world fighting to hold onto hope.

And that’s when the ordinary was never the same again.

This Christmas might not be anything special for you this year. It might look the same as it’s always been. Maybe it looks a little gloomy this time around. Maybe it’s good and happy. Whatever the case, chances are it’s a fairly ordinary Christmas. But keep your eyes open for a glimmer of the extraordinary–a glimpse of majesty, a flicker of awe-inspiring wonder–nestled in amongst the trimming of just another day.

Because the ordinary is exactly where you’re living right now, and it’s exactly where Jesus loves to meet you.


Merry Christmas, dear souls! He is God with us indeed.


P.S. Currently listening to Brandon Heath’s The Night Before Christmas, which fits pretty nicely. I won’t be active online for the next couple of days, but afterwards I’ll be back to reply to comments!

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