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I ’ ve never been much of a ‘morning person’. My father, by contrast, most certainly was. All the years I knew him, there was never a day wherein my father so much as even slept in. Not by my recollection, at any rate. Did he come home from work most days exhausted and often fall asleep during movies in the evening? Sure. Early to rise, early to bed, as they say. Nonetheless—my father was an early riser and no one could take that accolade from him. Growing up in the country on a ‘hobby farm’, of sorts, there was no shortage of work to be done around the property. My father had to wake early to ensure these many responsibilities were attended to. In addition to the countless household renovations he had undertaken, there were always fences in constant need of repair, paths in the forest that required blazing, and all the rest that rounds out the many joys and hassles of country life. There were goats to release for pasture, miniature horses to feed and water, eggs to gather, stables to clean, and most pressing: a small garden to protect from those very same goats and horses. One day, whether by some neglect of my father’s or my own (likely my own), we heard a commotion outside the barn where our garden was. It sounded much like the stomping of many small, hooved feet on a rampage. He was working by the barn, and I had stepped indoors for a moment. “The goats! The garden! I thought you were watching them!” we exclaimed to one another from across the yard. Running outside to investigate, we indeed saw our small flock of goats fleeing from—and through!—the garden as though Death himself pursued them. What could have spooked them?, we thought, as we looked around the assortment of vegetables for a clue, thinking we might stumble across some predator, whether a snake or perhaps even a raccoon. All we found in the end were a few gobbled heads of leaf lettuce and, still swaying on its stem like some dreaded talisman of emerald doom, a half-eaten jalapeño pepper—to my recollection, the goats never again dared set cloven hoof in that garden. Many such chores and adventures littered my childhood. Yet, well before any of these tasks were attended to, while the shadows of early morning still rested heavily upon wood and field, my father busied himself with other, more important work. In and out of season, it was ever my experience to find him in the Word during those early morning hours. Whether in the pale light of spring or in the thick dark of winter, my father remained consistent and steadfast in his daily Bible devotions. As I remember him even now, I can picture his shadowy form sitting in our sunroom; the rising mists of freshly brewed coffee ebbing between his own silhouette and the dimly lit forms of our two German shepherds as they sat by his feet, the audio Bible trickling from his phone like a gently rushing stream. It was my father’s devotion to the word of God, above all else he taught me, that most shaped my spiritual life and character. Imperfect and flawed as he was, my father always reminds me of the man in Psalm 1:1-3, “Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked, nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of scoffers; but his delight is in the law of the LORD, and on His law he meditates day and night. He is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that he does, he prospers.” As the saying goes, “Even the best of men are, at best, still men.” My father was no exception. Even the very greatest of fathers are still tainted by sin and in need of the Lord’s constant strength, grace, and forgiveness. Over the nineteen years he and I enjoyed together, I saw him shaped and molded by the Lord in remarkable ways, often through even the most ordinary means of grace such as his daily Bible reading in those early morning hours of my upbringing. Though I am not yet what you’d call a dues-paying ‘morning person’, I do think that I am slowly evolving into one—largely, I’d say, owing to the lingering example of my father from all those many years ago. I aim to leave the same example for my own children, for I know firsthand the power such a witness wields over small, watching eyes and loosely attentive ears. My father would be the first to say that reading the Word changes a man. Sometimes slowly and imperceptibly, working its way through the heart like a small stream; a small stream that, given sufficient time, cuts a mighty ravine into a mountain side. Indeed, my father’s obvious love for Christ was the greatest gift both he and the Lord could have given to me and my sisters. Not just a good father, but a godly one. Not just a strong father, but more importantly a weak one through whom Christ shone. For it was by my father’s example I learned firsthand that the Christian life is far more than mere dos and don’ts; to be a Christian means to follow Christ closely and with the entirety of your being, to blaze well-worn paths of intimacy with Him that will echo into eternity. To walk so closely behind Christ the Rabbi that the very dust of His feet finds itself caked on your face. I got the sense from my father that an all-consuming love for Christ was not something that came naturally or automatically to a man, even the redeemed man. Rather, deep intimacy with the Lord was something that had to be nourished and cultivated through daily dependence on His Spirit and much time spent in prayer and in the Word. Even as he and I cleared paths in our forest from tangled weeds and thorny bushes, my father demonstrated the utmost importance of clearing well-worn paths with the Savior as well. Well-worn paths made smooth and familiar by regular use. A familiarity that bore sweet fruit and refreshment for the one who daily obeyed the summons of Christ in Revelation 3:20, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me.” The sad reality is that many Christians have traded in intimacy with their first love, the Lord, for mere busywork in His Kingdom. Indeed, great hordes of men and women run around all hours of the day doing a good deal for the Kingdom all the while utterly neglecting the King Himself. As below, so above; if our heart for the Lord Jesus Christ runs lukewarm for Him below, who are we to suppose that some great change will occur when we see Him face to face? At death, there will be a great change, but only according to the treasure of our hearts. If we seek little intimacy with Him below, what expectation can we have for beyond? How often we seek distractions, no matter how noble or pious, in order to put off the real work of communing with our Lord in our closets or studying His word under the soft rays of a rising sun. Remember well, with fear and trembling, the dreadful underside of lukewarmness gone unrepented of: a clear warning standing opposite Christ ’s invitation in Revelation 3:20, as found in Matthew 7:22-23: “On that day many will say to me, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and cast out demons in your name, and do many mighty works in your name?’ And then will I declare to them, ‘I never knew you; depart from me, you workers of lawlessness.’” Take heart, He remains faithful even when we are lukewarm: “ if we are faithless, He remains faithful— for He cannot deny Himself ” (2 Timothy 2:13). He only asks that we be honest with our sin, repent by turning away from it, and turn to Him for forgiveness. If you hear Him knocking on the door of your heart, answer, and be refreshed as you sup with Him once more—for, the promise given in Revelation 3:20 is to those who are already His. Pray through the Psalms, go on a walk in creation while listening to Genesis, embark on Mark ’s Gospel, pick up a commentary and fall headlong into Romans—just begin, for little communion with the Lord is still better than no communion at all. However, be not content to remain there; strive onwards and upwards, always. Then, blaze new trails of fellowship and continue walking those well-worn paths of intimacy as you meditate on His word morning and evening. For, when you see Him face to face, I have no doubt those faithful paths forged here below will have found firmer ground above. Paths begun below, stretching onwards above to unknown heights and destinations beyond imagining. Photo by Tarik Haiga, Unsplash Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email. And if you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading.

D o you suppose even the trees grow weary because of sin? Not their sin, mind you—but ours. The Fall claimed more victims than mankind only: “ For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the sons of God. For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God ” (Romans 8:19-21) . Beautiful as the many trees of this world may be,—oak, ash, cedar, pine, birch, maple—something of their former glory was lost in the Fall, yet to be recovered. As the wind whispers amongst leaves in the gathering shade of dusk, do the trees themselves take up communion with one another? With outstretched roots grasping like fingers in the deep,—ever searching, aching for Eden—can it be that these sentinels of the wood exchange tales from long ago when they too were young, mere saplings planted in a young Earth by their Creator? Though, perhaps the stories they exchange through their rustling voices are not so much memories as they are myths and old-wives ’ tales. Much time has passed, you see; what was once memory has now passed into mist and legend. Indeed, when their knotted boughs ache and groan in the evening light, is it merely on account of the wind? Or, is there some deeper, more sorrowful sighing taking place that neither night or wind or the long wane of time can possibly explain? The trees—in their own way—bear the mark of the curse, just as we do. Whereas the trees feel it in root and branch, we in Christ feel it in our very souls. It is an ache that goes beyond sight, bone, and marrow, piercing the heart with a deep sense of home-sickness and sin-weariness. We have joy, such as will never be robbed from us if we are united to Christ. And yet, sometimes it feels as though we are fighting for that same joy with every fibre of our being. Therein lies the mystery of what Paul writes in Philippians: “ Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice ” (Philippians 4:4). We are in Christ, filled with His Spirit, and so we rejoice with a supernatural joy that is deep and inexpressible; but we are still in this world, and so we must fight for that same joy—daily. Joy, then, is both a response to God as well as a command from God. Even the heartiest and most mature among us must fight for joy. When I think of the late, great John MacArthur, I can ’t help but remember him as a mighty tree: strong, resolute, and unmoving, no matter the winds of culture or criticism that swirled about his feet. And yet, like all men—even the mightiest of men, mighty trees though they may be—he too grew tired and weary, longing for home. In addition to preaching multiple sermons each Sunday at Grace Community Church, Pastor John also hosted regular Question & Answer evenings, open to any and all in the congregation. If there was a burning question about the Bible and Christianity on your heart, Pastor John would answer it—and answer it well. On one such occasion, he was asked what he looked forward to most about Heaven. Of the many countless hours spent listening to Pastor John, his response to this question, simple as it was, remains perhaps my fondest memory of him. I did not know Pastor John personally, but because of moments like these I felt as though I did. He took a moment or two to think about the question, though I suspect his intended answer was never far out of his mind’ s reach—how could it not be near at hand? Doubtless he meditated long and often on this very topic, particularly as his years increased, growing like a long shadow behind him. When he finally began to speak, it wasn’t Pastor John MacArthur, the respected preacher and prolific author, who spoke. Rather, it was John the man—John the Christian —who answered. He seemed older as he responded, more bent and battle-worn than usual. More homesick. Ever joyful, though weary. As though the question itself stirred up a fresh longing in his heart; a breeze echoing through the leaves of his inner-man from some far-off place. “ When people ask me what appeals to me about Heaven, ” he began, “ it isn ’ t the streets of transparent gold or gates made of pearls; it ’ s the absence of sin.   I ’m tired of sin. ” Far from Grace Community Church, California, deep in the forest of Fangorn in the land of Middle-Earth, there was another tree: his name was Treebeard. Older he was than Pastor John; far, far older. Though, perhaps, less mighty than John, while still being great in his own way. As Treebeard, the great Shepherd of the trees of Fangorn and indeed a tree himself, roused the forest for war against the forces of darkness, a young hobbit made this observation amidst the clamour of Treebeard ’s battle procession: “Treebeard marched on, singing with the others for a while. But after a time his voice died to a murmur and fell silent again. Pippen could see that his old brow was wrinkled and knotted. At last he looked up, and Pippen could see a sad look in his eyes, sad but not unhappy. There was a light in them, as if the green flame had sunk deeper into the dark wells of his thought.” In The Two Towers, Gandalf describes Treebeard as Fangorn itself, “the guardian of the forest; he is oldest of the Ents, the oldest living thing that still walks beneath the Sun upon this Middle-Earth.” Treebeard’s roots run deep, and his memory deeper still. And his sorrow? Perhaps deeper yet. He was upon the Earth when the first Shadow fell: the Dark Lord Morgoth. And Treebeard he remains, knotted as he may be, to see the battle through to the end as another Shadow cloaks the land in the form of Sauron. As they march to war, Treebeard tells Pippen that, though the age of the Ents is fading, “we may help the other peoples before we pass away.” Sad he may be, but not unhappy: though his sorrow be deep, it has not yet outmatched his usefulness or zeal. Before the sight of oaks and men, I may not be very old, or even considered aged at all. In some ways, I am not much more than a sapling in the eyes of either. Yet, even saplings can be bruised and beaten by the wind—mere youth will not exclude anyone from the elements of this world. As believers, it would seem that the more we age, evermore keenly do the joys and sorrows of life grow with us. Life gets both better and harder. More joyful and yet, somehow, more sorrowful and just plain heavier. The deeper our roots dig in the soil of a fallen world and the wider our boughs fan outwards in a place hostile to us, the more we long for that wood beyond the world. We grow more and more sorrowful at the dark realities of sin, both in this world and particularly in ourselves— “ I’m tired of sin. ” But, we do not descend into unhappiness because we know that perfect justice, peace, and redemption awaits those in Christ. As Paul writes, “ We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed ” (2 Corinthians 4:9-10). Perplexed, but not despairing; sad, but not unhappy. Indeed, we are a sad people, but not an unhappy people. Our sorrows are real, but our joy in Christ far greater. And one day, when sin within and sin without is done away with, we shall be happy only. Christ will soon return; then we will be roused, slipping off the rags of the curse once and for all as if it were an old, half-forgotten dream. Until that day, fight, fight for joy. Again I say: fight for joy. Photo by Fabrice Villard, Unsplash Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email. And if you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading.

Paprikash (serves 4-6) Ingredients: One pound chopped beef, three tablespoons olive oil, two large onions, three potatoes (any variety), four large carrots, three bell peppers, half a head of garlic (minced or chopped), two cups of chicken or beef broth, spices (don’t forget vegeta). N ow that the house was finally empty, it did not take long for silence to rush in and fill that rather large vacuum left by aunts, uncles, grandparents, children of all shapes and sizes, and all manner of distant relations. The silence was welcome for once. In light of the past few weeks, I, to some degree, began to understand why Bilbo chose to slip away from his own birthday party in a cloak of invisibility rather than suffer the insufferable commotion that—good intentions aside—friends and family can stir up. Indeed, now that the kitchen was my own again, what better way to blow off some steam than by, quite literally, creating some steam on a stove top. I perused the kitchen, pantry, and fridge in a slow and lackadaisical manner, taking time to note what we did and did not have so that when it came to eventually cooking I wouldn’t be caught short of ingredients. I, of course, had no clue what I wanted to cook, but that was quite alright—I would let our kitchen’s stockpile (or lack thereof) do the deciding for me. It appeared that in the midst of all the grieving—and hosting that cut short much of the grieving—that took place over the last few weeks, we had amassed more guests than we did food, leaving our kitchen with little more than some beef and a small selection of vegetables. Ah, potatoes, peppers, carrots, and onions—he staple of every Serbian diet. My mind went back to an old manager of mine from the grocery store who also happened to be Serbian, and a saying of his regarding our culture’s cuisine— “You know why Serbians always have peppers and onions in their meals? Because they’re cheap, and they last forever in the fridge.” Indeed. The good thing about only having a small assortment of hearty vegetables and some beef at your disposal is that, as a Serbian, there is no shortage of Serbian meals to cook. Potatoes and onions are as important to the culinary arts as primary colors are to the arts themselves insofar as Serbians are concerned. My eyes turned to the softly snow falling just beyond the window of the kitchen, clothing the pines in a thick blanket of white, rendering them shapeless. On a cold day like this, what better meal to sit down to than some paprikash? Paprikash , as it was called in Serbia, was little more than a dressed-down stew that could be made from virtually any source of protein and whatever happened to be alive in one’s garden. It was a favorite of Tata’s. One). In a large pot, set to medium-high heat and drizzle three tablespoons of olive oil into the pot, then stir in the two onions after they have been chopped. Once the onions have grown soft, stir in the meat. Add salt, pepper, and the garlic.          Just as the meat began to brown, I went to the spice drawer for some more colorful options beyond merely salt and pepper. Right there, standing like a sentinel over the other spices, never to be forgotten because of the sheer size of the bag, was the vegeta. This Serbian spice, vegeta, was a concoction of spices and dried vegetables that was used in nearly every Eastern European dish, paprikash chief among them. It was a convenient little piece of Serbian engineering, but it had the unfortunate tendency of making everything taste the same after a while. This, however, never bothered Tata, given he used it in nearly everything—perhaps, even, his morning coffee. He always used to say that, “ You don’t even need to use salt or pepper, just add in a little vegeta because it has both and everything else you could ever need.”   Two). Once the meat begins to brown, chop the peppers, carrots, and potatoes into cube-sized pieces and stir them into the stew. Add more salt and pepper—or just vegeta.   I tossed in a liberal amount of vegeta and let the stew simmer for a few moments while I wrestled with my memory for the rest of the recipe. The meal was simple enough, so simple that an ape could have made it. However, my recollection was being assailed by two things at this moment. The first being that my father never cooked with a recipe and so it became near mental gymnastics trying to recreate anything he made. He “cooked by ear”, as it were, just as he played the piano by ear. And the second obstacle hindering my memory being that given how similar all Serbian meals were, it became hard to differentiate between them after a time. You could well begin making one meal only to finish with another altogether and hardly notice along the way. Am I supposed to add broth now? Do I add broth at all? Didn’t it turn out all soupy last time and not, you know, stew-y? That’s okay, I’ll just call Tata, he’ll remember. I pulled out my phone and punched in my father’s number, and then set the phone on the counter beside the stove on speaker. My hands were a little grimy, so I didn’t want to handle my phone more than I had to. The line began to ring. Ring… ring… ring… silence. The silence, for the first time today, was not at all welcome.   Three). When all the vegetables and spices are added, turn the heat to low. Add in the broth, and then cover with a lid.   Tata, my father, had passed away three weeks ago. And yet, in another way, it seemed as though it had been a lifetime ago, for so much had changed since then. As a child, I had always thought that certain people were just “off-limits” when it came to death. Sure, I always knew this was unrealistic, but nonetheless, never did it occur to me that Tata, my dad, would pass before his time. However, I do not think he thought this way. No, he was much too wise to overlook his own passing in such childish ways. My Tata was a Godly man; a firm man with a firm faith, a faith seemingly cut from granite. I will always remember that passage of scripture that he claimed as dearest to his own heart, “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and  a time to die…” He first began feeling sick on Thanksgiving Day of the year before. I remember the exact date clearly because I was the one who drove him to the hospital, and I distinctly remember him not being there for Thanksgiving dinner—his chair sat empty, as it would in the years to come, never to be filled again. But at the time, we never suspected that. He was Tata: he would be fine, just that ol’ gallbladder acting up again. He’d be home in no time. He was constantly in and out of the hospital in the days and weeks that followed, so much so that it seemed he spent more time in the car going to and fro than at either home or the hospital itself. The doctors weren’t sure what was the matter before the matter became very matter of fact indeed: cancer. That was November. By Christmas he grew steadily weaker and worse, but it still seemed manageable. However, by the end of January, the doctors sat us all down and told us that he had only six months left to live. He went home to be with the Lord the very next week. “A time to be born, and a time to die…”   Four). Let the stew simmer on low heat for an hour, stirring occasionally throughout. Taste now and again, add more seasoning if needed.   Silence. I looked down at my phone, greeted only by my own pale reflection in the sheer black screen. He’s gone, I remembered. Gone in the old-fashioned sense of the word—never to return. He doesn’t live here anymore.   Five). After an hour, turn off heat and let the stew cool slightly before serving.   In the wake of my father’s passing, I’ve concluded that the term ‘amputation’ is perhaps the best way to describe grief. In fact, I’ve made this very comparison on this very blog. And so, rather than wrestle with my words for the second time in order to sort out this matter in different words, only to say the exact thing again, I will simply rewrite here what I have written there.  “Grief is a funny thing. It stings, it bites, it numbs, and sometimes it itches. It itches a part of you that no longer exists. After the passing of his wife, the great British author C.S. Lewis reflected on grief as though he had undergone an amputation. There is the sickness that needs to be dealt with, swiftly followed by the amputation, or the separation, as it were. The amputation is a sharp pain, unlike anything you have experienced before, and then the healing begins—this is what we call grieving. Only, amputation doesn’t solely mean the loss of a limb, as though that were all, for you must now go on living without that limb. You must learn to walk, work, eat, and sleep without that part of you, because it isn’t coming back. And yet, sometimes in the dark of the night the missing limb will begin to ache and itch and as you stir from your sleep to attend to the itch you soon realize that there is nothing to scratch at all—it isn’t a part of you anymore. So it is with grief.” On that cool winter afternoon six years ago, I experienced my first itch. My father was gone for only a few short weeks, and then for a moment he wasn’t gone: he’s just at work, I’ll call him, just as I had done a million times before. I have had many such itches since then; some are just momentary feelings and others are aches that seem to last for weeks, but they always get better in the end. There was an itch when I met the love of my life, my wife, and an ever bigger itch on the day I married her; that phantom limb aches when I think about the bitter reality that my father will never meet my wife’s parents, who are ever so close to my heart; when I realize that he will never meet my wife, or our future children, or attend my sisters’ weddings, or help me renovate our first home, and so on, ad infinitum. The parts of you that are dearest, once they are gone, always seem to itch the most. However, there is a certain, quiet beauty in that. As the weeks and months have ebbed and flowed since that dreary afternoon, years taking their place, I have had to remind myself that, while he is not here, my Tata is by no means gone—he is simply elsewhere. Life is woven together with seasons, and with each season there comes a new seasoning, as it were. Some years are seasoned with joy, others with sorrow, but most, like vegeta , are a blend of both. Such is life, and such is grief. To once again quote C.S. Lewis, “Grief is like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape.” For everything in life, whether good or ill, there is both a reason and a season for it—and, a proper seasoning. When the itch returns and becomes particularly painful, my mind often draws back to my father’s passage of scripture, the one dearest to his heart, right along the final lines: “He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man’s heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end” (Ecclesiastes 3:11). Indeed—there are far, far better things ahead than any we may leave behind.   Six). Serve with rice or noodles, and enjoy with those who are dearest to your heart.

“L ong ago, at many times and in many ways, God spoke to our fathers by the prophets, but in these last days He has spoken to us by His Son, whom He appointed the heir of all things, through whom also He created the world.”   —Hebrews 1:1-2   W hat thoughts come to mind when you think of the word history?  Do the syllables conjure up memories of dreadfully boring school assignments and dusty books, prescribed by teachers whose minds were dustier still? Or, does a more romantic feeling overcome you? Feelings of deep mystery and high adventure; long shadows of thought cast by untold, ancient memory and the dwindling light of torches as they dance upon Roman forts and ancient pyramids. Indeed, what does history mean to you?   The Shadow of the Past             Anyone who has read C.S. Lewis’ The Space Trilogy  knows that the plot demands much of the reader and their imagination (and some patience, perhaps). However, as is the case with most of his writing, Lewis rewards careful reading of even his most bizarre and fantastical work—of which That Hideous Strength, the concluding novel to the trilogy, is chief.             One of the most haunting and beautiful— hauntingly beautiful —passages in the novel takes place in the final third of the novel as three characters—Jane, Dimble, and Arthur—make their way through a dense, wet forest in search of the wizard Merlin from Arthurian legend. At this point in the story, they know not whether Merlin is friend or foe; they simply know that he cannot fall into the hands of their enemies, such that they are willing to risk their lives in either case to find him and secure victory. In the hands of any other author this scene would play out rather forgettably. Lewis, however, is no ordinary author. In these few pages, he unfolds a lofty meditation on the nature of history and myth and how the two are woven in an almost tangible way. Indeed, there is a visceral physicality to this scene as the characters make their way through the forest—through history itself. As the three characters venture further into the bowels of the wood in search of Merlin, it is Dimble, the wisest and oldest among the group, who first begins to sense the weight of time and history gathering about them: “‘The Dark Ages,’ thought Dimble; how lightly one had read and written those words. But now they were going to step right into that Darkness. It was an age, not a man, that awaited them in the horrible little dingle. And suddenly all that Britain which had been so long familiar to him as a scholar rose up like a solid thing. He could see it all.” Dimble, an academic and a Christian, begins in that little dingle to see history not as a mere series of events haphazardly cobbled together, but as a tangible, solid thing one could reach out and touch—or rather, a solid thing that reaches out for you. Not a static set of facts; but a living, almost sentient, breathing story that is pulling everything near unto itself. Right beside Dimble, however, is Jane. At this point in the novel she has not yet become a Christian and so her perspective on life—and death —is quite different from Dimble’s. As the weight of the wood begins to press in, so do Jane’s thoughts—unlike Dimble, however, her mind turns to religion rather than to the mossy annals of time. Jane’s thoughts are stripped raw of the academic and abstract, leaving with her a question countless others have wrestled with through the long ages since Christ’s ascension. Stumbling through the darkness, with the possibility of death hanging above like a thick cloud, Jane’s mind begins to work: “If it had ever occurred to her to question whether all these things might be the reality behind what she had been taught at school as ‘religion,’ she had put the thought aside. The distance between these alarming and operative realities and memory, say, of fat Mrs. Dimble saying her prayers, was too wide. The things belonged, for her, to different worlds. On the one hand, terror of dreams, rapture of obedience, the tingling light… and the great struggle against an imminent danger; on the other, the smell of pews, horrible lithographs of the Saviour (apparently seven feet high, with the face of a consumptive girl), the embarrassment of confirmation classes, the nervous affability of clergy-men. But this time, if it was really to be death, the thought would not be put aside. Because, really, it now appeared that almost anything might be true.”       A Dreadful Gap At a rather simple level, Jane is completely right—“The things belonged… to different worlds.” What fellowship do creaky church benches and He who commands the stars have with one another? How is it that an infinite and holy God beyond all human comprehension can be reconciled with these more common elements of religion—the smell of pews, dusty hymnals, the warm awkwardness of churchgoers, and the like? For centuries, a ‘rebuke’ along these lines has been an arrow in the quiver of atheists and skeptics alike—though, a rather blunt one. The scoffers postulate and foam with arguments such as, “How dare you Christians say that yours is the only way! There’s an entire universe out there to be explored and yet you say the One who made it all cares most for the little stuff like marriage and the family and kindness and, worse still, has all sorts of rules against what we can and can’t do with our own bodies! Don’t you think God—if such a Person were to exist—is far too busy to care about things like that?” Only a few weeks ago, cultural commentator and ‘comedian’ Jon Stewart issued a similar response when asked why he doesn’t believe in God. I’m paraphrasing, but Stewart’s contentions essentially boil down to i) the general problem of suffering, particularly among children, and ii) the explicitly Christian ‘issue’ of extreme specificity. With respect to extreme specificity, Stewart believes that the truth claims in the Bible are far too narrow and specific. If Christians were to simply claim that there is a good, all-loving, and powerful God,—albeit, one limited to a mere impersonal ‘Force’—this would more or less be palatable to Stewart’s sensibilities. His true issue rests not in the Christian belief that there is a God, but rather in the firm Biblical assertion that God became flesh. That the infinite became infant, maturing and living among us as a carpenter named Jesus before beginning His earthly ministry, suffering on a Roman cross for sinners, rising again for their justification, and ascending to Heaven where He now rules over all, soon to return. God’s becoming man is a fact of history that Stewart and his ilk simply cannot accept. It is too specific, it is too narrow (as we should suspect to be the case if the story were true, which it is ). Yet in the minds of the skeptics, too much is left out—the gap between their life experience and this vague notion of ‘God’ in their heads is simply too vast. And yet, the Bible’s answer to the protests of both Jon and Jane would be just  that: these things do  belong to different worlds and are in dire need of the reconciliation that only Christ’s Incarnation can provide. Indeed, that is very much the point— something is broken and in need of tremendous repair. The dreadful incongruity of this world that both Jon and Jane are troubled by is not the place where the Christian story ends but rather where it begins. For, all has now been brought near by the Lord Jesus Christ: “‘Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call His name Emmanuel’ (which means, God with us)” (Matthew 1:23).   The Nucleus of Redemptive History The Incarnation of Christ so far transcends the calendar date and holiday season of Christmas even as the Lord Himself stands infinitely supreme over all things. The Incarnation, God the Son becoming flesh (John 1:1-14), is no mere footnote in history— it is history.  The story of the Gospels is not limited to a chapter title among many or even to the title of the book itself. Rather, Christ’s glorious Incarnation is the richly adorned library in which all other books are contained. There is nothing outside of Him. God becoming man is history ; the very nucleus of it, the solid thing to which all others point and find their substance. For, what is history but His story? Every iota preceding the Incarnation of the Son of God was an echo or mere shadow that strained forward to catch a better look behind the veil; and everything since the Incarnation is an attempt to gaze backwards that we might better look forwards through the eyes of faith to that Day when we shall see Him face to face as believers. Jesus’ Incarnation—His virgin birth, sinless life, atoning death, and glorious resurrection—functions as the nucleus of history, the central point and weight behind all reality. For remember, though it is small in comparison to the rest of an atom, the nucleus occupies the central mass of the atomic structure and binds all other things within itself. And as with the innermost part of an atom, God the Son becoming a man named Jesus is the central event of this particular story—of every story. If all recorded and unrecorded history were as a stretched-out bedsheet held tightly by its four corners, Christ’s Incarnation is the 15-pound bowling ball hurled in the middle of it—drawing all else down towards its crushing mass, threatening to rip the very fabric of reality asunder. He is the weight within history; bringing the darkness and barbarity of the past together with the age of the church in His own body, for which He bled and died to save. “He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For by Him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through Him and for Him. And He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together. And He is the head of the body, the church. He is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in everything He might be preeminent. For in Him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through Him to reconcile to Himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of His cross” (Colossians 1:15-20). History is His Story Christ’s Incarnation is the bridge between ages, standing amidst the howling chaos of Merlin’s time and the last days in which we now find ourselves; the ladder upon which Heaven and Earth climb and embrace. When God the Son became man in the historical person of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, He closed the chasm between sinful man and holy, holy, holy God—between the mortal and the immortal, between the finite and the infinite. When God took on flesh in the Incarnation, two completely different worlds divided by the Fall were once again brought into communion. In the Word made flesh, He who forever dwells in light unapproachable condescended with perfect understanding to the very messy, human  world of poorly made church coffee, the smell of pews, lisping prayers made by aching hearts, broken homes, broken hearts, hospital visits made black by terminal diagnoses, funerals with crowds too large and caskets far too small, and all the rest, whether happy or sad, which makes up His body, the church. I began by asking what comes to mind when you think of the word history . To conclude, let’s consider another question: What enters your heart when you consider Christmas? Is it another holiday that swiftly comes and goes, though perhaps with some added liturgy and Christian tradition? Or, do you feel an ache towards something greater? Something—or Someone —greater that is at once deeply mysterious and frightening, yet warm and familiar the more you draw near? Are you, like a little marble rolling across the bedsheet, feeling pulled towards that great Weight in the center? This season, let us meditate on Christmas and the Incarnation of our Lord not as an event which has come and gone, but as a reality that is presently enduring and conquering. Conquering moment by moment with the spread of the Gospel through the church’s advance in the world; fanning its sweet aroma across a cosmos ruled by our Lord who took on flesh and forever reigns in the flesh as the God-Man—the King of kings and the Lord of lords. When Dimble peered into the gaping maw of history, terror overcame him because he saw an old world that was yet without her Savior. As Jane came to realize the infinite chasm she was caught between, she too became fearful because she had no saving knowledge of the One who came to bridge the gap. In the Incarnation of Christ our Savior, all this fear has been done away with. In past ages, God spoke through prophets; in the Incarnation of the Son, God has spoken His final Word. Thus, we need not tremble when we look into the past, dark as the way has been, nor is there cause for fear of the future—it’s His story, after all, and I read someplace that He’s best known for happy endings. Author’s Note: This article was originally published on December 30th, 2025 at The Gospel Coalition Canada. You can read the original article by clicking the button below: Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email. And if you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading.

T he mornings were crisper, the air was sharper, and the evening shade deeper—there was a new tune in the air. The green of summer had ebbed to a close, and the countryside was bathed in hues of gold and amber. Thanksgiving was here, and with it, a new season was approaching for our household. Tata, my father, began feeling sick in the early hours of Thanksgiving Day. I remember the exact date because I was the one who drove him to the hospital, and I’ll never forget his absence at Thanksgiving dinner. The house was bustling with family, and yet his chair sat empty. It would remain this way in the years to come—but at the time, we never suspected that. He was Tata, nothing could happen to him; he meant too much to too many people. He’d be home in no time. Our family tread a well-worn path to and from the hospital in the days and weeks that followed. And yet, for all his time in the hospital, the doctors could not determine why my father was sick. As the shadows deepened outside, so did his eventual diagnosis: cancer. By Christmas, he grew steadily weaker, but it still seemed manageable. However, by the end of January, the doctors sat my mother and I down and told us that he had only six months left to live.  He went home to be with the Lord the following week. The Empty Chair Life is filled with empty chairs, is it not? Grief feels most fresh when the milestones of life begin to pass us by. Holidays, weddings, birthdays, anniversaries—these are all necessary and beautiful threads that make up the mosaic of our lives. However, it is within these that the echo of our loved one’s life begins to ring again; when all the chairs around us are filled, save only a few.  Year by year, Thanksgiving by Thanksgiving, we have moved on and yet they remain the same. Grief and hope and love have kept these beloved souls alive in our hearts, just as death secured their earthly memory in time. My father will forever remain fifty-six in my mind; that is, until I see him again and he shows me otherwise.  That’s the dirty little secret about grief: it doesn’t just go away, it lingers. With each passing year it takes on a different form to be sure, but it still clings to our souls. As we journey through this world, our grief grows with us. However, as the years ebb and the Lord continues His work in our hearts, there is a sweetness to grief that begins to take hold. A warmth blooms within the soul that, like David after the death of his child, can now say with a joyful sorrow, “Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he will not return to me” (2 Samuel 12:23). We grieve, but not as those who are without hope. For Everything There is a Season and a Reason When a dear friend, parent, spouse, or child passes to be with the Lord, we become reminded of the truth that we have spiritual, eternal skin in the game. Suddenly, there is no room for a fickle faith. Either the Bible is true, all of it, or it isn’t. Simple as that. Either our loved ones in Christ have gone to be with the Lord, or they have faded out of existence entirely. Either His promises are true and eternal, or they are nothing at all to us and we are, as Paul said, “of all people most to be pitied” (1 Corinthians 15:19).   But because the Bible is true, because Christ finally and fully secures the salvation of those who cast themselves on Him, we have hope: “But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope.  For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep” (1 Thessalonians 4:13-14). As Christians, we do not grieve without hope. Because of the Gospel, we have hope that this is not a life that leads to death, but a death that leads to life abundant. Within the bulwark of the Gospel, our souls can rest assured in the reality that for everything that comes our way, whether good or evil, there is both a season and a reason for it. Indeed, the Lord wastes nothing. Though the chairs of our loved ones may be empty here on earth, it is because they have taken up residence forever at the side of Him who invited them by name to the Wedding Feast of the Lamb:  “‘Go therefore to the main roads and invite to the wedding feast as many as you find.’ And those servants went out into the roads and gathered all whom they found, both bad and good. So the wedding hall was filled with guests” (Matthew 22:9-10). Many Meetings When the bad news of God’s wrath upon sinners cuts to our very heart by the work of His Spirit, it is only then that we can see and savor the good news: the unfathomably deep love, patience, and grace of the Triune God extended to unworthy sinners like you and I. By faith in the atoning death and resurrection of the person of Jesus Christ, we are brought in from the howling infinite of God's holy wrath, forgiven of our sins, washed of our guilt, and given a seat at His table, unending fellowship with Him both now and in the age to come, and crowned with the family name itself. For those of us who are in Christ, both living and asleep, our great hope is to know God and be with Him forever. From the lips of Christ Himself, eternal life is to know God the Father and God the Son, whom the Father has sent (John 17:3). Paul concludes 1 Thessalonians 4 with a similar encouragement, “Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we will always be with the Lord”  (1 Thessalonians 4:17).  After the death of his son, David wrestled with his grief until he could say, “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints” (Psalm 116:15). Dear brother and sister, the Lord does not waste sorrow and heartache. If there is an empty chair in your midst today, rest assured that it is because your loved one who knew the Lord had another appointment to keep. For they were invited by name, just as you were, to sit at a chair with a handwritten place card, written by the very hands that were pierced for our transgressions. They now occupy a seat that is less a chair than it is a throne; one that shall never again go empty. This Thanksgiving season, whether you are celebrating in the midst of sorrow or joy, set your heart on these truths. If you are wading through a season of sorrow, continue to praise the Lord and rest in the Gospel; if joy, praise the Lord all the same, and continue to rest in the hope of the Gospel. Remember the words of C.S. Lewis when he said, “He who has God and everything else has no more than he who has God only.”  Thank the Lord for what and who you have and thank Him that, through Christ alone, we shall soon meet Him and those who have gone on before us. It will be a time of many meetings; old friendships rekindled among husbands, wives, parents, and children. Lines of care and age shall waste away as we, with unveiled faces, look upon Him to whom all our praise and thanksgiving flowed here below, a stream that shall run uninterrupted for eternity in the land of many meetings. Photo by Kym MacKinnon, Unsplash This post was originally published in November of 2024 for SOLA Network to coincide with American Thanksgiving. The original was posted under the same title, “The Land of Many Meetings.” Tolkien aficionados may remember “Many Meetings” as the title for Chapter 1 of Book 2 of The Fellowship of the Ring. This being the chapter wherein the company of Hobbits and Aragorn reach the safety of Rivendell—a Haven of Rest—after a most perilous journey. I thought this to be an appropriate title as we, sojourners ourselves, make our way through many dangers, toils, and snares towards that eternal Haven of Rest. I would encourage you, dear reader, to support the work of SOLA Network by visiting their website, which can be found here:

H ave you ever found yourself lost in a sunset? In the dying light of an evening long ago, across an ocean of time and circumstances, I caught a glimpse of something that I will never forget. What I saw—the beauty that my heart tasted in that moment—was less the thing in and of itself than it was the thing beyond the thing . What I saw was a sunset: sharp, grey spires of pines clothed with golden light; and as the horizon leveled, a rich amber, like fire, erupting from the velvet shadows just beyond the nearest hills. I had seen many sunsets up until this point, but something stirred in me on that particular evening. What I tasted in that moment—the ache my soul experienced—filled me with a sense of nostalgia. It was as though I became an onlooker into things that were not to be seen by mortal eyes, while feeling strangely familiar and at home all the same. Truly, something restless stirred in my soul that evening; a deep and profound sense of longing awoke that is yet to be put to rest. Indeed, I have been trying to open that curtain again and again ever since that night. An Ode to Sunsets There are moments, perhaps only fleeting slivers of a moment, in which one catches the tune of something far-off and distant. We hear this tune in the dancing of golden sunlight upon autumn leaves, or the crescendo of beauty that lies in the clouds at sunset; a sight so rich in beauty, so tangible, that you feel you could almost walk over the nearest hill and round the next bend directly into those halls of glory beyond the clouds themselves. As if, for only a moment, the curtain is pulled back ever so slightly on every longing and ache of the human soul: the doors of eternity themselves having been thrown wide open for a moment in time. As though you were chasing an otherworldly song through an endless corridor, unsatisfied until your hands finally and fully rested on the source of the music. And then, before we know it, the music fades and the curtain is drawn once more, leaving us back in our own world once again. In these moments there arises a longing; a near maddening, romantic arousal within one’s soul; a faint whisper and soft suggestion that this world is not our home after all—indeed, how can it be? When C.S. Lewis spoke of the wood beyond the world, —this feeling, this sense of nostalgia—he had this mysteriously evasive quality of aching and longing in mind: “the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.” In his monumental essay The Weight of Glory, Lewis expands further on this ache: “Apparently, then, our lifelong nostalgia, our longing to be reunited with something in the universe from which we now feel cut off, to be on the inside of some door which we have always seen from the outside, is no mere neurotic fancy, but the truest index of our real situation. And to be at last summoned inside would be both glory and honour beyond all our merits and also the healing of that old ache.” ...And Childhood While no one has had a perfect childhood, many of us had a good childhood—even a great one. I, for my part, had a great childhood. Indeed, the joys and comforts of my own upbringing have shaped me and my understanding of the world in ways beyond count. And when I consider my own childhood, there seems to me no other way to describe it than as one long, continuous sunset. Perhaps this feeling is just that, a feeling ; a rose-colored, nostalgia-tinged caricature of my early years. But, on the other hand, perhaps not. Perhaps this nostalgia of mine is not romanticism run amok, but instead the “ truest index of my upbringing, ” to borrow words from Lewis. Indeed, sorrows and imperfections aside, I feel like this characterization is most true to the heart of what my childhood actually was. As though every moment and memory of my youth is clothed in the warm light of a setting sun—Sunday evenings baking bread over a charcoal fire with my father and sister; going on family walks through the wood of this world with our dogs; large family gatherings at my uncle ’s home; and maybe most potently, Sunday evening song services at our local church. From the first to the last, all these dear childhood memories are touched with a golden hue, casting shadows far beyond themselves to a reality far greater, realer, and more beautiful. Though, I feel as though Sunday evening song services occupy a place unto themselves. I am by no means a competent singer (in fact, I was gently ‘released’ from junior choir several years early for this very reason—a story for another time, I’m afraid). Nonetheless, I love to sing; I love to sing unto the Lord; and above all, I love to sing unto my Savior with my fellow brothers and sisters in Christ. Growing up, there was one hymn in particular that we typically saved for last on Sunday evenings, simply titled “Sunset.” Some years later, I often find myself singing the first verse now and again: “When shadows grow long in the evening, When birds wing their way back home, I get a heavenly feeling; It’s sunset and I’m going home. God paints the clouds in the evening sky, To show me the way to the palace on high, And stars mark the pathway lest my feet should roam,   It’s sunset and I’m going home.” That Old Ache I fully realize that not everyone had a great childhood, or even a good one. While there is a difference between good and great, I sense that the gulf existing between good and bad is far wider and more treacherous. Perhaps your childhood is marked not by the the light of a setting sun, but rather by storm clouds, sleet, and many dark nights. Though in either case, that old ache yet persists, does it not? Doubtless we sensed it from early childhood, no matter our circumstances. Some weight in our souls, a longing without name; a cry within the howling infinite of our innermost-being that testified to the truth that God “has put eternity into man ’s heart ” (Ecclesiastes 3:11). Without Him, our souls remained utterly restless. And when the Lord saved us, did we not finally taste and see the One to whom all the sunset-shadows kept pointing? All of life is as the setting of the sun—a gradual closing of the curtain as night falls upon this age. A groaning of all creation itself in anticipation of a new, unending day: “ But according to His promise we are waiting for new heavens and a new earth in which righteousness dwells ” (1 Peter 3:13) . When the shadows begin to grow long in the evening sky, do not despair. If you are the Lord ’ s, this world was never your home to begin with: “ For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God ” (Colossians 3:3) . Rather, follow these shadows and longings to the feet of Him who is the remedy for every ache in our hearts. For in a short time the sun will set on each of our lives, and with joy we will say to ourselves, “I ’ve got a heavenly feeling; the way has been long and hard, but now it’s sunset and I’m finally going home.” And when we at long last see Him for the first time and hear those words,— “Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Master”—every ache shall then be healed and every longing satisfied. On that day, we will at last step into the light to which our lifelong nostalgia only dimly pointed—we’ll finally be home. Photo by Andrey Svistunov, Unsplash

W hile I ’ve always enjoyed writing, it wasn’t until after my father passed away that I truly took up my pen and got to work. My father, like his father before him, was a hard and handy man—there was hardly a thing he could not build or a household problem he could not fix. I, on the other hand, am not an exceedingly handy person (though, I’d like to think I’m becoming more of one). However, despite the ‘handy’ gene being recessive, I take comfort in the words of Irish Poet Seamus Heaney who, speaking of his own father in the poem “Digging”, wrote these words: “ The old man could handle a spade.    Just like his old man.   But I’ve no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it. ” Digging I began writing all those years ago out of a desperate desire to untangle the many thoughts and emotions that were beginning to swell within me after my father went home to be with the Lord. There was something in my heart that needed unearthing, and so my words got to digging . And though the Lord has given me much more than grieving and sorrow to write about over the years, I do find that my writing so often returns to my father, to his passing, and to this subject of longing, nostalgia, and homesickness. The season of life that brought about my father ’s death was not simply one season among many, but indeed the very season that shaped all the rest. Not that his death was the chief catalyst of change (for, he is now more alive than he ever was), but rather it was the Lord’s sanctifying work in and through this experience that so profoundly shaped me. I do not write these words lightly when I say that though my father’s passing was the greatest sorrow of my life, it was also one of the Lord ’s greatest gifts to me and my family—cultivating within us an eternal perspective, a thirst for Christ, and a longing for that place to which all our lifelong nostalgia only dimly points. Indeed, my writing on any other matter cannot be properly understood outside of my father ’s battle with cancer and his passing not long after. Though, can it rightly be called a battle that cancer has won ? People so often say, “After a long battle with cancer, the cancer finally won and ____ died.” I disagree wholeheartedly. As Norm MacDonald once said, “Both body and cancer die in the end, I’d call that a draw. ” As those in Christ, we know that the one, cancer, has perished forever while the other, our loved one, has gone to be where death is no more—to me, that sounds like a far cry from defeat. In a world where cancer ‘claims’ millions of souls every year, one can scarcely say the Lord has no use of it. If cancer be the cold hand through which Christ brings many of our loved ones home into the warmth of His eternal embrace, then so be it. Kissing the Wave My wife, like many of you who’ve been reading along for some time now, never met my father. In light of this reality, my earnest hope in much of the things I’ve written has been to share him with you all in some way—to present a mosaic of who he was and what he meant to so many such that, even if you never met him, you could gather a sense of what he was all about. While he was here, my father ’s life shaped so very many others, and I like to think that he is continuing to do so. I hope and pray I’ve accomplished that task faithfully. That being said, my father was not a perfect man. For all the joy and warmth that radiated from him, there were times—more times than I’d prefer to admit—where my father seemed gripped by a great heaviness of heart. Looking back, it seemed as though this melancholy of soul would come and go mysteriously—surfacing now and again, perhaps for a moment, only to disappear for a season. At times, this heaviness of heart was just that—a sort of heaviness about him, an inner-sighing of his spirit. In other moments, it was as though he was quietly carrying the world upon his shoulders. Charles Spurgeon, the “Prince of Preachers”, was my father’s favorite theologian and writer. Many Christians may not realize this, but he too suffered a similar heaviness of heart all his life. Spurgeon once professed in a sermon of his that, “My spirits were sunken so low that I could weep by the hour like a child, and yet I knew not what I wept for.” I never realized it at the time, but I’ve now come to believe that this was in large part why my father loved Spurgeon so dearly; he saw in Spurgeon not only a theologian and preacher, but a friend. A friend who, like Christ, was “a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3). A friend who, like David before him, was likewise caught in the vice-grip of Biblical conviction and yet still cried out into the darkness from time to time—“Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me?” (Psalm 43:5). Later on in the Psalms, the writer voices his sorrow in this way: “You have put me in the depths of the pit, in the regions dark and deep. Your wrath lies heavy upon me, and you overwhelm me with all your waves” (Psalm 88:6-7). When I remember my father, imperfections aside, I see a man of immense courage and faith who, echoing the words of Spurgeon, could boldly say that he “learned to kiss the wave that [threw him] against the Rock of Ages.” “ Just Like Your Dad ” Shortly after my father passed away, I made the short walk to my cousin’s house next door as I had done a million times before. As was my custom (one I learned from my father, in fact), I simply knocked on the door and then let myself in a second later. While I was in the entrance way taking off my shoes, an unseen voice circled from around the corner—“Josh? Is that you?” “Uh, yeah, it is... How did you know it was me?” I replied, somewhat taken aback. “It’s your breathing—you sigh just like your dad.” I said earlier that my dad was an incredibly handy man and that, unfortunately for me, the ‘handy’ gene was a recessive one. This being the case, there are nonetheless many other things I do share in common with my father—one of them being this disposition towards a heaviness of heart, an inner-sighing of the spirit that has followed me all my Christian walk. Ever since becoming a Christian in my teen years, I must admit that the fight for joy has been a daily battle. Indeed, there are times in which I fear this is what makes me most like my father; not his brilliant mathematical mind or deep love for those around him, but rather this disposition towards a heaviness of heart. And through every sign and ache of the soul, the Lord has remained utterly faithful and good to me. Like my father, I have “learned to kiss the wave that throws me against the Rock of Ages.” Looking at the broken and sinful world around us, it can become all too easy to give ourselves over to hopelessness and despondency. And yet, we do not lose hope—we must not lose hope. The Word of God does not sugar-coat the fallen state of the world nor does it insist we view reality through the lens of rose-colored glasses. The Apostle Paul, inspired by the Holy Spirit, recognized this reality well when he urges believers to “Rejoice in the Lord always ; again I will say, rejoice” (Philippians 4:4). It is as though Paul is anticipating the Philippians’ response before they have even the opportunity to make it—“I know life is hard, but rejoice always. Yes, let me repeat myself: no matter what happens, why it happens, or how many times it happens to happen, always rejoice!” And why are we to rejoice always? The answer, spelled out in verse 5, is quite simple: “The Lord is at hand” (Philippians 4:5). Paul is reminding his fellow believers that eternity is upon their very doorstep; they can and must rejoice because soon and very soon, they will be in that place where dying, crying, and sighing no longer take place. We ’re going to see the King soon, Paul says—so just relax, serve, and be happy. No More Sighing There I said earlier that part of my motivation for writing is to share my father with those who did not know him, and indeed, to also bless those who knew him best. With that purpose in mind, perhaps I can share one more angle of him, another piece in this mosaic that I ’ve been trying to craft—a piece that just so happens to be the final glimpse I caught of him. Leading up to the evening of my father’s departure, there was a shared sense among our family that the time of our final goodbye was drawing close. In the Lord’s great kindness, He slowly gathered the whole family to the hospital—nieces, nephews, life-long friends, siblings, children, his father, and wife, nearly everyone who rubbed shoulders with my father on a daily basis found themselves in his hospital room at the end. In his final moments a song, like a warm breeze among us on that cold winter night, began to envelop around my father’s bed—growing softly until it outstretched its embrace into the rest of the cancer wing, flowing into the adjoining rooms, the nurse’s station, before finally settling in the lobby at the far end of the corridor. The last sound my father heard here below was the voice of his family, his brothers and sisters in the Lord, singing the hymn “Soon and Very Soon.” The hymn goes like this: “Soon and very soon, We are going to see the King; Hallelujah hallelujah, We ’ re going to see the King. No more crying there, We are going to see the King; No more dying there, We are going to see the King; Hallelujah hallelujah, We ’ re going to see the King. ” Moments after our song ebbed to a close, my father’s earthly life closed with it. He was guided seamlessly from this world and welcomed into the next with song, his hand held firmly by His faithful Savior all the way—into that place where there’s no more crying, no more dying, and at long last, no more sighing. Photo by Fitra Zulfy, Unsplash

W alter Hooper, the literary advisor of C.S. Lewis’s vast estate after his death and—more importantly—a close friend of his, once described Lewis as “the most thoroughly converted man [he] ever met.” He expands upon this reflection by saying that Lewis’s “ whole vision of life was such that the natural and the supernatural seemed inseparably combined. ” Through & Through Now, what might Hooper have meant by the phrase thoroughly converted ? Surely he did not mean by the word ‘converted’ that Lewis was—in contrast to other religious folks—completely united to Christ whereas others were only partly united to Him; as though salvation were a matter of degrees, operating upon a spectrum of thoroughly converted on one side, partly converted in the middle, and utterly lost on the far side. God forbid! For, “by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast” (Ephesians 2:8-9). You are either united to Christ through faith, having had all your sins atoned for and forgiven, or you are outside of Christ, still under the wrath of God and in need of salvation. What Hooper means here by thoroughly converted has nothing to do with justification (our being declared just and holy by God because of our union with Christ) and everything to do with sanctification (the process by which we are made more and more like Christ). After being reconciled to God through the work of His Son, it is then the work of every believer to, just like Lewis, begin the lifelong process of binding together the seen with the unseen. To live in such a way that there no longer exists a contradiction between your view of the world and the Bible’s. Indeed, to have such a living, breathing faith in God’s word that “ the natural and the supernatural seemed inseparably combined. ” Sanctification begins in the mind of the believer only after they have been given new spiritual life by God the Holy Spirit. In Romans 12, Paul describes our work in sanctification, ever in step with the Spirit, in this way: “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind” (verse 2). When an individual comes to saving faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, they undergo an initial change of mind (repentance) that is characterized by a turning away from sin and a turning to the Lord. Sanctification as a lifelong process, then, should be seen as the Christian’s daily habit of continual repentance until they see the Lord face to face in glory. This initial change of mind and turning from sin must define the believer’s walk with Christ going forward as they put in the hard work of untangling their formerly ungodly affections from their new God-given affections. This is not unlike digging up of rotten roots and weeds in a garden in order to cultivate healthy growth; indeed, digging up the rottenness of sin and unbelief that have so infiltrated the unbeliever’s inner life up until their appointment with God Himself. In this way, I think Hooper ’s estimation of what it means to be “thoroughly converted” is helpful, but let us go deeper, shall we? Let us consider, alongside the Apostle Paul, what it means to “be transformed by the renewal of your mind.” Just Like Jesus As followers of Christ, a deep and abiding desire to be like Him should characterize our every waking moment. That is, however imperfectly, we should strive to love those things that He loves, hate those things that He hates, and do those things that He delights in. That in everything, in word and deed and thought, we would be as mini-Christs in the world. In this way, we demonstrate that we love Him—no matter how weak and paltry our attempts may be. Christian living then is nothing short of aiming to imitate our Creator as He gives us ability to do so: “ Do not lie to one another, seeing that you have put off the old self with its practices and have put on the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge after the image of its Creator ” (Colossians 3:9-10). At it’s most basic, to be thoroughly converted is to be thoroughly Christ-like. And so, if we are to love the Lord Jesus Christ by being like Him and obeying Him, we should probably have a sense for what that love ought to look like. In John 14:15, the Lord said, “If you love me, you will keep my commandments.” While this command extends to the entirety of God’s word, perhaps we can summarize what Jesus meant when He said “my commandments” by considering what He declared to be the sum and substance of the Law and the Prophets, the Greatest Commandment: “The most important is, ‘Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’ The second is this: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no commandment greater than these” (Mark 12:29-31). What the Lord Jesus Christ is calling for in this passage is the total and absolute submission of one’s will and affections. The entire person is in view here: heart, soul, mind, strength, including the submission of every resource and every relationship. Love God absolutely, love others sincerely—do both, and do both thoroughly. In this passage and others, Christ makes it abundantly clear that our love for God and others must first flow from a burning affection for God Himself. Not a love for that which God will give us, but a love for the very Person of God Himself. The height and depth and sheer breadth of the Lord’s command that we love Him above all is found in no place better or more clearly than in Matthew 10:37 when Jesus says these words: “ Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me, and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me .” Christ ’s sovereign claim upon our hearts is absolute, unwavering, unapologetic, and utterly thorough. We must love the Lord above all because He is above all. He is the loveliest of all, the kindest of all, the most beautiful of all, and to love Him above all is our highest good. As the Puritan Thomas Doolittle so succinctly put it, “If Jesus is not loved above all, He is not sincerely loved at all.” Letting Loose the Lion It is upon this point that our witness to the world hinges, overflowing from our hearts upwards and outwards to those around us. In 1 Peter 3:13-17, the Apostle lays out one of the New Testament’s most powerful recipes for evangelism. However, before Peter ever makes mention of our sharing Christ with those around us, he first commands his readers to separate Christ as holy in their hearts: “but in your hearts honor Christ the Lord as holy” (verse 15). In other translations, the word honor is translated as revere, worship, and sanctify. The primary thrust of Peter’s command is the weighty summons that the Lord be set apart in our affections. It is as though Peter is telling his readers to once and for all settle in their hearts the matter of Christ’s lordship and then, upon being settled, to go and impress the lordship of Christ upon the watching world around them through the preaching of the Gospel. But once again, this zeal for the honor of Christ must first characterize every iota of our inner man before we can effectively preach Christ as all-surpassingly glorious to the world around us. A powerful companion passage to Peter’s summons in 1 Peter 3:15 is found in 2 Corinthians 10. Writing on the nature of the demonic cosmic battle roaring around us and the importance of faith in our sovereign Lord, Paul says: “For though we walk in the flesh, we are not waging war according to the flesh. For the weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh but have divine power to destroy strongholds. We destroy arguments and every lofty opinion raised against the knowledge of God, and take every thought captive to obey Christ” (2 Corinthians 10:3-5). To be a slave to Christ means we must also make a slave of every thought that would oppose Him—to hold these thoughts captive, and then swiftly slay them. If we are to be thoroughly converted, every thought, doubt, and ideology contrary to Christ and His word must be slain right in its very infancy before it has opportunity to spread further and fester. Even as the shadow of the thought creases your mind, turn from it, slay it, and replace the void left by it with some truth from God ’s word. If we are to love the Lord above all, then every fabric of our thinking and believing and doing must be brought into closest possible alignment with God ’s revealed will in the Bible. Let every other worldly notion and philosophy fall by the wayside: “ See to it that no one takes you captive by philosophy and empty deceit, according to human tradition, according to the elemental spirits of the world, and not according to Christ ” (Colossians 2:8). Alongside J.C. Ryle, let us endeavor to “receive nothing, believe nothing, follow nothing which is not in the Bible, nor can be proved by the Bible.” Charles Spurgeon once famously said, “ The Word of God is like a lion. You don’t have to defend a lion. All you have to do is let the lion loose, and the lion will defend itself. ” Indeed, for so it is. However, let us not have our eyes so bent outwards that we fail to allow the Lion to do His work inside each one of us. Photo by Mr. Great Heart, Unsplash Author’s Note: This post was originally written for The Gospel Coalition Canada and published on October 21st, 2025. You can access the original publication by visiting the link below:

“Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger” (Luke 2:10-12). W ithout a sturdy, eternal perspective that rests in the perfect will of the Lord, the story of human history swiftly decays into a rather dark one. In his monumental book, Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis considers the legacy of humanity in this way: “All that we call human history—money, poverty, ambition, war, prostitution, classes, empires, slavery—[is] the long terrible story of man trying to find something other than God which will make him happy.” Severed from intimate fellowship with a good and loving God, human history is not just dark, miserable, and unintelligible—it is utterly nightmarish. When humanity fell into sin, ushering in the Fall, the entirety of creation fell with us. Our relationship with one another, with the world around us, and with our Creator above all became broken and marred from its original, beautiful purpose. Every blade of grass, the very soil in which it grew, each beast that ate of it and roamed the Earth, down to the very hands that tended the Earth—all became stained and corrupted by the cancer that is sin. Though in the very beginning, it was not so. As the newly formed cosmos began to stretch out its infant limbs of white-hot stars and cool ocean depths, “the LORD God formed the man of dust from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living creature” (Genesis 2:7). Leading up to the sixth day of creation, the Lord surveyed His work sunset after sunset and simply said, “it was good.” However, with the creation of both man and woman, His image-bearers, God proudly declared, “it was very good” (Genesis 1:31). The jewels of God’s handiwork—man and woman, male and female—crowned with the weighty task of reflecting His glory and exercising dominion across the universe, were now complete. It was within this perfect setting, one of righteousness and beauty, that our first parents walked with God “in the cool of the day” (Genesis 3:8). Unfortunately, we all know what happened next. Satan entered the Garden, and with him came lies, destruction, and sin. Adam and Eve exchanged fellowship with the immortal God for the empty vessels promised by autonomous mortality apart from God—lies yielding only corruption, sin, and death . The original sin of our first parents condemned humanity to a sure death that wasn’t merely physical, but spiritual also. For though Adam and Eve lived several hundred years after the Fall, they did “surely die” in the end (Genesis 2:17). Apart from fellowship with God for whom we were made, the flesh decays and the soul withers. But why did God withdraw from Adam and Eve? Why must humanity be reconciled with God to begin with? Because He is holy, holy, holy; utterly good and infinitely above all created things—He cannot entertain fellowship with the mere murmur of sin. The Light has no dealings whatsoever with shadow. Suddenly and decisively, man’s relationship with his Maker fell into ruin. God was no longer with man, not as He had been. Heaven went dark, and a black curtain of death was strewn across the cosmos. And yet, amidst the encroaching shadow descending upon mankind like a brewing storm cloud, the Light continued to both shine and speak: “I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and her offspring; he shall bruise your head, and you shall bruise his heel” (Genesis 3:15). In the cool of the Garden long ago, God made a promise to mankind. Even as the lights one by one began to go out across the universe, the Lord whispered of a great Light to come: an offspring born of Eve who would crush the head of the serpent and “save his people from their sins” (Matthew 1:21). A way—the Way (John 14:6)—back to God. This is the same Light which now “shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5). From the lips of our Lord Jesus Himself—“I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life” (John 8:12). Each and every Christmas season, we, as believers, celebrate this great Light which has dawned on mankind. For though we have grown old and become darkened in our understanding of God on account of our sin, the Light yet shines in the abyss, promising life for all who draw near to Him through faith and repentance. The faithful promise of God uttered in Genesis 3:15 found its fulfillment in the very first chapter of Matthew’s Gospel, wherein he writes: “‘Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call his name Immanuel’ (which means, God with us)” (Matthew 1:23). God with us. In 1 Kings 8:27, King Solomon asks, “But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you; how much less this house that I have built! ” To which God the Son thunders in response, “Sacrifices and offerings you have not desired, but a body have you prepared for me ” (Hebrews 10:5). Behold the mystery of mysteries as the infinite becomes infant: God with us. Marvel as God condescends to man in matchless humility; swaddling Himself not only in simple cloths but flesh itself. Tremble before the mighty truth that the eternal God took on a human nature while still reigning as sovereign King who rules from everlasting to everlasting in light unapproachable. In the Incarnation, an addition was made to the Divine nature, not a subtraction. It was no mere incarceration of God into flesh, as though even an iota of His glory was diminished. Instead, a glorious Incarnation took place at the birth of our Lord, wherein Christ assumed His rightful headship of the human race as the Second and Better Adam. As the Puritan titan, John Owen, put it: “He became what He was not, but He ceased not to be what He was.” At Christ’s birth, a glorious reversal of the Fall began to take place. Before God became man in the historical person of Jesus Christ, the material world of flesh was stained by sin and corruption. In the Incarnation, the material world was elevated once again to its rightful place as that which “was very good” (Genesis 1:31)—this reversal marks the firstfruits of a reality which will be completed when Christ returns. In becoming man, God began the weighty process in time which He foreordained from eternity past to bring all things nigh unto Himself in Christ our Lord. In the Son of God made flesh, the Lord drew near to us in our innumerable weaknesses and temptations with utter perfection and righteousness. As the Holy Spirit says through the author of Hebrews, “ For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin ” (Hebrews 4:15). Jesus ’ life here below was no easy road. He was, as Isaiah tells us, a man of sorrows. Not since time began nor thereafter has more evil, slander, pain, and hardship befallen a man more unworthy of the slightest harm than Jesus Christ of Nazareth. Everyone in this day and age rails against the supposed injustice of “bad things happening to good people.” My friends, that only happened once , and He volunteered for it. He who is holy, holy, holy condescended with wholly perfect love and understanding to the very messy, very human  world of broken homes and broken hearts. In His humanity, God the Son draws near to lives made desolate by deep loneliness; to wordless prayers uttered by sighing hearts and groans innumerable. He is well acquainted with the sting of betrayal caused by wayward children and adulterous spouses, and the dread of hospital appointments made black by terminal diagnoses. He sees and knows those who are shattered with grief in large funeral crowds as they stand beside caskets far too small. And He knows intimately—infinitely—all the rest, whether happy or sad, that makes up His body which He bled and died for: the church. It is in Christ ’s humiliation that He serves as our great high priest and advocate before God the Father, ever and intimately aware of the weakness of our frame. For remember that the material world is not corrupt in and of itself; it was corrupted when sin entered the world. God’s embrace of the physical and material in the Incarnation gives us immense comfort amidst the messiness of our own very physical lives here below in a world that for the present time yet remains fallen. A comfort that rings true down to the very soil of the soul; an assurance that Christ will redeem it all, everything. Christ ’s understanding of our profound weakness strikes at the heart of what it means for God to be with us. Because of His human nature, Christ understands our troubles keenly and intimately, better than we know ourselves; and because of His divine nature, He can do something about it. Are you sighing under the weight of sorrow this Christmas? If you are in Christ, be encouraged—God is with you. Are you rejoicing beyond words as you enter this season? If you are in Christ, rejoice further—for God is with you. And in Christ ’s exaltation as the King of kings and Lord of lords, we are reminded that the Incarnation is not an event that has come and gone—as though that were all—but a reality that presently endures and conquers. Though the highest of heavens cannot contain Him, Christ our Lord has made Himself known through His body, the church, in our faithful, Spirit-enabled preaching of the Gospel. “For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them” (Ephesians 2:10). Oh!—let not the glory of Christmas pass you by, my dear brothers and sisters in Christ. For Christmas is no mere day among many: it represents the turning of an age, wherein God became one of us and began the next stage of His masterplan in setting everything perfect and right. And why did Jesus come? Why, as C.S. Lewis put it, “the Son of God became a man to enable men to become sons of God.” The Incarnation of God the Son is the preeminent example of what J.R.R. Tolkien would call “a eucatastrophe. ” Not a catastrophe (which means a spontaneous, tragic disaster) but a eucatastrophe —indeed, quite the opposite. Tolkien himself coined the phrase because, in his estimation, no word existed grand enough for what he meant. Namely, a massive, sudden turn in fortune from a seemingly unconquerable situation to an unforeseen, gracious, almost supernatural victory. In stark contrast to a catastrophe, a eucatastrophe is the happiest of all outcomes stemming from the very darkest, most evil of circumstances—a great turning of events for good when all seems hopeless. Jesus dying on the cross at the hands of the very men He made and nursed from infancy was the greatest of all evils. And yet, His death and resurrection brought about a glory no one, man or angel, could have possibly imagined. From the perspective of man, all seemed lost; from the perspective of God, however, all was going exactly according to plan. According to the very plan which He Himself established from before the foundations of the world. The story that began at Christmas— Jesus’ virgin birth, sinless life of submission to the will of the Father, atoning death for our sins, bodily resurrection, and glorious ascension—secured humanity’s happy ending. A true eucatastrophe. Every evil, injustice, and heartache will not only be undone in the end, but will become untrue  in the light of His perfect redemption: “For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us” (Romans 8:18). Indeed, God has sovereignly determined not just a happy ending for those in Christ, but the happiest of all possible endings. A continuation—no, a great realization! —of that blessed fellowship with the Lord which was severed in the Garden long ago. The perfect realization of God with us. For in the end—or rather, the beginning of a new story, one which will never end and only ever get better — that is precisely what we see: “ And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘ Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away. ’” —Revelation 21:3-4 Photo by Greyson Joralemon, Unsplash Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email. And if you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading.

S asha, mine and Elaina ’s Australian Labradoodle, had only been gone for a few days before the signs of her absence became clear. By gone , I do not mean deceased; she was simply out of the house. Out of the country, in fact. Indeed, our dog was on vacation in Florida. When Elaina and I discovered we were expecting our first child back in the Fall, we swiftly determined that a vacation was in order just as soon as I finished my classes in mid-December. Rather than vacation on our own, “the lines fell pleasantly” for everyone in the family to spend Christmas together in Florida—a joyful opportunity that has become something of a Christmas tradition for Elaina’s side of the family. As was their custom, Elaina’s parents made the pilgrimage from Ontario to Florida by car, hauling with them carefully wrapped gifts, anything that didn’t fit in our suitcases for the flight, and, for the first time since we’ve been married, Sasha as well. This alleviated the need for a dog-sitter over the holidays—a herculean task if ever there was one. It also provided our little friend, Sasha, with a vacation of her own before she too would have to navigate the addition of a little one stealing her toys and tugging on her fur. Sasha left with Elaina’s parents by car a full week before we departed to join them by plane. It was in this week, however, that a curious phenomenon took place. Suddenly, the house grew far quieter than it ever seemed before. With Sasha gone, a hole had been temporarily punched in our home, leaving a significant void—small as it was. No Sasha meant no scratching on the door multiple times a day to be let outside and no constant haranguing during dinner time for a bite of our food (despite her bowl being filled already). Perhaps most noticeable of all, there was no friend to rub shoulders with throughout the day when it was just Elaina or I at home alone without the company of the other. Without Sasha, there was no one with which to pass by those mundane moments in that simple, quiet way only creatures who cannot communicate in the same language find themselves doing. The toys Sasha had been last playing with remained where they were left, still and unmoved; the water in her bowl was untouched and level; her spot on the couch noticeably empty. Sasha was gone for but a few days and yet it seemed as though her fluffy presence still lingered the now eerily quiet rooms of our home—it was a most felt absence. She was surely gone, but one dimly suspected they might bump into her in the adjoining room fast asleep on the carpet just as soon as they entered. As Elaina and I jokingly remarked back and forth throughout the week, “It’s like she’s haunting the place.” Grief is a sort of haunting , isn ’t it? A gradually loosening, though never absent, grip on one’s heart by someone who has gone on before you. A faint (but ever so strong), invisible (though nigh tangible), distance (which borders on omnipresence) that floods each and every room, corridor, item, and memory touched by the loved one. A sense of imminence that somehow also seems a great ways off from where you presently stand. When you can no longer take the overwhelming presence of your loved one’s memory, it persists and stings as if they were next to you; and just when you feel up to thinking about them again in the light of some fair day, off away grief snatches them to the far reaches of distant memory. A felt absence indeed. The confusing—and at times contradictory—concoction of thoughts that make up the grieving process can be incredibly difficult to understand. For me, the knot of grief makes most sense when it is likened to amputation . When a healthy limb, such as a leg, becomes diseased, there are times when it must be removed altogether. The infection has been stopped dead in its tracks and, because of the drastic intervention, life will now go on—oh yes, life will go on, but not as it once did. Therein lies the trouble: life must go on. You see, normal routines and responsibilities must still be attended to; only now, such work will be done with one leg as opposed to two. You will find your way in time, to be sure, but life as you knew it will never again return to that which it was before the amputation, before the loss. And perhaps worst of all: in the deep dark of night, that phantom limb will ache and itch under strewn and crumpled bedsheets, and as you go to scratch it you discover that you were fooled once again—though the absence was felt, an absence it yet remains. In the days leading up to and immediately following Christmas, no doubt the great joy—and heaviness—of the season is beginning to settle. I have felt it too. When the joy of a child on the way began finally to feel normal, slowly stitching itself into the regular fabric of our lives, a different weight began to take its place. The slow, steady realization began to dawn on me that, amid all the planning and smiles, this was yet another milestone in life that would exclude my father. I felt it at our wedding, and I felt it again when I became a father, and many times in between. Nearly eight years have now passed since my father went home to be with the Lord, and I still find my hand drawn at times to the phone to share good news with him, or to unburden my heart of some heaviness. For all the loss and heartache that the holidays may threaten to conjure up, let us encourage one another with the incalculable presence of Him to whom Christmas points. Even now, because of the Incarnation of our Lord, all things are being brought nigh unto God through the Word made flesh as Jesus reigns as King of kings. And though their absence is surely felt for a season, our loved ones are with the One in whom they died and now live. In due time we will join them both. Until then, meditate on the weighty truth of Christmas: the enduring, omnipotent presence of Christ with you and I amidst even the most heavy absence—God with us! “ ‘ She will bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins. ’ All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet: ‘ Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call his name Immanuel ’ (which means, God with us ).” —Matthew 1:21-23 Merry Christmas, my friends. Photo by Mary Skrynnikova, Unsplash Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email. And if you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading.

“ Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O LORD, my rock and my redeemer ” (Psalm 19:14). A fter several years of regular, weekly writing, now seems as good a time as any to explain what the name of my blog, Iotas in Eternity , could possibly mean. If you ’ve been perplexed, my apologies for the wait! Indeed, over the years I ’ve received no shortage of questions about the title—though I am most happy to explain the rationale behind my word choice. Before that , however, it would be best if I threw open the door to my heart somewhat. Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve felt a constant pull—steady, strong, though seemingly imperceptible—towards the world of words. As a youth, I fell headlong into the deep imaginative reservoir of literature penned by C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Jules Verne, sparking within me an even deeper longing to write alongside these men. Buried as I forever may be underneath the collective weight of their literary shadow, the ache to write yet persists. Before becoming a follower of Christ, there was always a sense about me that my most natural state was one with a pen (or laptop) in hand, burdened under some fresh idea. A poking, prodding idea that would not let go of me until I cut the page with it; allowing the words to flow as they would, issuing from me as some sort of wound—though, perhaps balm is a better word for it. Outside of Christ this feeling was all aches and groans and restlessness. In Christ, it is now peace and joy. In the hands of Christ, my writing has found its muse, the One whom my soul loves most; almost as if a mighty dam has finally been let open, gently making its way from and then back to Him who is the Source, the Ocean. Indeed, it wasn’t until I came to know the Lord—the living Word (John 1)—that my own words found a true and lasting home. As with anyone who becomes a Christian, His Spirit gave me a renewed heart with new, Godly affections. Suddenly, my newfound desire to worship the God who saved me and my old desire to write at once shook hands and became intertwined; much like a hand slipping into a perfectly tailored glove for which it was made stitch by stitch. When I gaze upon the beauty of Christ, what can I do but write unto Him in return? His matchless glory holds me as a joyful and willing captive, compelling me to write, write, write—and strive with all my might to write well. Doubtless other Christian creatives feel the same, whatever form their work may take. The chorus of The Beggar Who Gives Alms, a song by Christian—and Canadian!—rock group Downhere, navigates these wordless aches well: “ Gold and silver have I none, But such I have give Thee; Borrowed words from the One Who gave the gift to me; The Pearl that I could never buy, This life, this dream, this song; And I am just a beggar who gives alms .” No matter how high our prose may climb, or how deep our song settles in the hearts of those who hear, we are in the end but beggars who joyfully and humbly give alms unto Him who gave the gift to begin with. As James says, “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change” (James 1:17). Language, literature, music, art, poetry—it all belongs to Him and comes from Him, having found its conception in His mind long, long ago. Any gift we can give Him, whether small or great, is but a gift already first bestowed by Him. As His redeemed image bearers, it is our duty to stewards these gifts well and return them to Him, having exhausted their potential for His glory. And that, my friend, is where the name Iotas in Eternity comes in. An iota ( ai ᐧ ow ᐧ tuh) is a Greek word, defined most simply as “an extremely small amount.” It also functions as the 9th letter of the Greek alphabet. You may remember our Lord Himself using the word iota in the Gospels when He says, “For truly, I say to you, until heaven and earth pass away, not an iota , not a dot, will pass from the Law until all is accomplished” (Matthew 5:18). Not a single dotted i or crossed t of the Law will be neglected or ignored in Christ ’s establishment of the Kingdom of God. Everything foretold in the Old Testament about the coming Messiah and His righteous work—down to a single pen stroke, an iota —will be fulfilled. Every jot and tittle will be accounted for. As a man who is both a Christian and a writer, it is a solemn joy to write as unto the Lord. It is also a solemn responsibility . If every careless word—every iota, though minute as a grain of sand — will be accounted for in the end, how much more every reckless word written or typed on the internet? Indeed, there are no idle iotas. At Iotas in Eternity, it has not been, nor ever will be, my desire to chase trends and headlines. This may mean my work is viewed and shared less than it otherwise would be, but so be it. Every iota will be accounted for in the end. For though a grain of sand be small, among the smallest of all things, what is a mighty beach but the consistent, faithful accumulation of tiny grains of sand over time? For good or for ill, great things often stem from small beginnings. For my part, I would much rather be faithful over little, than unfaithful in much. Since beginning to write, whether on this blog or elsewhere, it has always remained my chief desire to write things that are true . Things which are not simply true for today , mind you, but things that were true 100 years ago, 1,000 years ago, and which will continue to be true 10,000 years from now and forever thereafter. When I stand before the Lord Jesus Christ at the end of my life—as we all will—I want to stand tall and joyful knowing I had done all within my power to serve Him and His body, the church, with those things He gave me, whether it was little or much. The Lord has given me everyday words with which to work my craft. It is my utmost desire to stretch and strain those everyday words for eternal purposes—for His glory and your good. Thus, Iotas in Eternity. And, should no one save the Lord Himself read my work—well, He is audience enough for me. As I look ahead at the year to come, it is my desire to write more and to write better. This pursuit, in addition to my work as a teacher and caring for my small—though growing !—family, lends itself well to help from others. Through the years, there has been some interest in supporting my work as a paid subscriber or member—something I was deeply encouraged and humbled by, but a responsibility I wasn ’ t ready to commit to back then. And while I will continue to write until my dying day should never a single cent come my way, this new endeavor has been on my heart for some time. With all of this in mind, it is with immense excitement (coupled with as much humility as I can muster) that I present to you, dear readers, my Patreon page—a place where you can support me as I continue to write, in any way you feel led, whether paid or free. I warmly welcome you to visit the Patreon page for Iotas in Eternity by clicking the button below: Once more, keep in mind that without any monetary support I will continue writing unto the Lord and for His church. He is worthy, and there is scarcely a thing I enjoy more than having the honour of serving others through the written word. Indeed, nothing short of death will keep me from writing; have no fear, I ’m not going anywhere! But, your support would be a tremendous encouragement nonetheless, one that I will strive to steward faithfully as I continue to provide for my family and cover miscellaneous blogging costs (paying for a domain, email marketing, and the like). Should you choose to support my writing at this time, I can ’t promise you much more than that which I’ve already given—my heart, my words, and as many jewels as I can dig up from God’s word. Down the road I would love to bless my supporters and subscribers with special offers or premium benefits, while still keeping all my work free to others. Perhaps these perks will come with time, though not yet. What I can promise each of you, however, is that I will continue to polish nuggets of gold from those things I read, see, and experience until they shine brightly for your reading pleasure. And above all, to encourage you best as I am able with unfading truth from the word of the Lord. If you ’ ve been blessed and encouraged by my writing through the years, I humbly invite you to walk alongside me in this new and exciting adventure. Though, of course, there is no pressure to do so—not now, not ever. And as always, the very best support you can offer me remains the very thing that many of you have already done: simply reading, encouraging me, and then sharing my work with others. My friends, if not for this encouragement I may have ceased writing long ago—you know who you are, and you have my heart. Thank you, my friends, for this great kindness you ’ ve done me by welcoming my words into your minds, homes, and hearts. I look forward with immense joy to serving you and our Lord in the years to come with everyday words for eternal purposes. Photo by Matt Antonioli, Unsplash Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email. And if you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading.

“A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight... Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, further westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.” —James Joyce, The Dead Thus ends The Dead, Joyce ’ s finest short story. Part Christmas story, part ghost story, part lament against Lady Ireland, The Dead has become a mighty footing in the cathedral that is Irish literature. All these many threads—the warmth of a Christmas dinner, tense political conversations, a dawning existential crisis, and old haunts—are realized in the subtle, haunting beauty of the story ’ s final breath. The focus of the story is Gabriel Conroy, a well-educated man from Dublin, Ireland, who is aching for life and status abroad. Gabriel pines for an existence far from Ireland and all that she has, in his mind, come to represent: endless war and death, an empty Catholicism, and a cultural heritage about as lively as still water. The greater part of the story ’ s drama unfolds during a Christmas party in Dublin held by Gabriel ’ s two aunts, Julia and Kate. Upon leaving the party, Gabriel and his wife Gretta make their way in the early morning hours to their hotel room across town. All the while, as the cold snow is falling gently, Gabriel’s heart is burning within him. A vision of his wife upon the staircase from earlier that night, enveloped in shadow and distant music, has stirred something in his heart. However, once Gabriel and Gretta enter their hotel room, the moment seems to have faded. “Gretta dear, what are you thinking about?” Gabriel asks once they are alone, the snow still gently falling just beyond their hotel window. On the bed, ebbing in and out of a sleepy melancholy, Gretta reveals to her husband Gabriel that the night ’ s festivities—one song in particular—roused from her past a ghost she had long since thought to be dead and buried. The memory of a young man named Michael Furey, deep from within Gretta ’ s past, has again entered her thoughts. “He is dead,” Gretta said at length. “He died when he was only seventeen. Isn ’ t it a terrible thing to die so young as that? I think he died for me.” Overcome by melancholy or exhaustion or both, Gretta falls asleep on the bed. Gabriel, pierced by the haunting suggestion that he may not, after all, know his wife as intimately as he suspected, walks over to the shadowy window and observes an equally haunting sight— “the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.” Why should Gabriel not feel haunted? Why should he not feel terribly, terribly alone? His academic mind, beguiled by philosophy and secularism, has cut him off from any and all Divine comfort. Like Herman Melville ’ s Bartleby, “He seemed alone, absolutely alone in the universe. A bit of wreck in the mid-Atlantic… like the last column of some ruined temple, he remained standing mute and solitary in the middle of the otherwise deserted room.” Before we came to know God—or rather, to be known by God—we were all like Gabriel. Outside of Christ, we were nothing but bits of wreckage floating in the howling infinite of a holy God ’ s holy wrath. If you are yet outside of Him, and while the door of grace remains open, repent, confess and turn from your sins, and cast yourself upon the living Christ in faith, trusting in His death as the sole atonement able to wash you spotless from every sin. Then, and then only, will you be able to stand secure in the splendor of His righteousness and holiness when you pass from this life into the next. To persist upon the road of open rebellion against God has but one end: to be terribly alone, infinitely alone, tormented without even the presence of Him who fills all in all to comfort you. To speak of being abandoned by God, our Maker, seems an almost unthinkable thought. And yet the infinitely horrifying reality is made clear time and again in Scripture, most often by our Lord Himself. My friend C.S. Lewis put what I call ‘ infinite abandonment ’ this way, “Does not God know all things at all times? But it is dreadfully reechoed in another passage of the New Testament. There we are warned that it may happen to anyone of us to appear at last before the face of God and hear only the appalling words, ‘I never knew you. Depart from Me.’ In some sense, as dark to the intellect as it is unendurable to the feelings, we can be both banished from the presence of Him who is present everywhere and erased from the knowledge of Him who knows all. We can be left utterly and absolutely outside—repelled, exiled, estranged, finally and unspeakably ignored.” However, this dark reality is no longer the end for those of us who have turned from our sin to the living and everlasting God through faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. When the Gabriel Conroys of this world see a veil of snow falling upon the face of the Earth, a dreadful shadow falls upon their souls also; a black-stained anticipation of the end that awaits all enemies of the Lord. It is not so with those of us who have taken shelter in the Lord. When the redeemed observe the faintly falling snow through the universe, their minds ought to turn to the Maker of both snow and universe, the One who crafts each and every snowflake individually, separately—uniquely. A great torrent of white snow settling on a blemished creation should remind us all of Him who delights in washing us clean—whiter than snow, spotless (Psalm 51:7). Whereas the world sees cosmic indifference or else cosmic judgement in a snowfall, we as Christians should see grace upon grace. “Do not be anxious about your life,” the Lord Jesus said (Matthew 6:25). Why? He goes on to point our eyes and hearts upwards, not to the snow but to the sparrows, and down again towards the lilies. “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these” (6:28-29). He goes on: “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore, you are of more worth than many sparrows” (Matthew 10:29-31). If not a single sparrow falls to the ground apart from the Father ’ s knowledge, why then do we so easily grow anxious and troubled? Consider the lilies, consider the sparrows, consider the snowflakes, and consider thoughtfully Him who made them all. Jesus is the God of both great and small. He is Lord over birds, beasts, and creeping things; over men, demons, and angels. He has made the stars, and when dawn blooms He calls them out of the abyss one after the other by name. If you are in Christ, you may very well pass through this life without much acknowledgment, devoid of fame or riches of any kind. Moss will gather upon your grave and dust may settle even upon the very memory of your name; but fear not, for you are worth more than many sparrows. Consider the sparrows, and consider the snowflakes. He who has time—indeed, makes time —to craft each and every snowflake uniquely surely has His affections set on you. And when the dawn comes, He will call you forth from this present darkness by name into His glorious light above. Photo by Mihika, Unsplash