“And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; He is Christ, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.

Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom His favor rests.’”

-Luke 2:8-14

You will find Him in a feeding trough.

You, on whom His favor rests.

You will find Him where you least expect Him.

Do you hear His whisper this morning? “You will find me where you least expect me.”

This, the very most unexpected place, this is where we find Him. Even more, this is where He finds us.

In the long dark nights, in the lowering of my friends’ bodies into the dark earth, in the resettling of their children into foster-families, in the impossibly hard parenting and the shepherding of my children through searing loss, I have known Jesus. In the endless blending and grinding of food for a feeding tube, and the endless chopping of carrots for soup, and the long lists of spelling words and multiplication facts, and the unexpected joy of just being, we have known Jesus. In the blazing hot sun, in the forever-caked-on-my-heels red mud, over the thousands of potholes, I have known impossible, unexpected Grace.

And this is my prayer for you this Christmas. That in the very most unlikely places, in the hard and the hurt and the dark, you would know the unexpected hope that can only come from our Savior. Impossible grace abounds, even where we least expect it.

Can you hear it? His message to the shepherds is His message to us today. “You will find a baby lying in a manger. You will find my love where you least expect it. You will find me in the mud, in the muck, in the dirt. And in the mess of your sin and the hurt of this life, I will find you.”

Merry Christmas. May impossible, unexpected grace be yours through Christ our Savior.

Can you imagine the stench?

Joseph has walked and Mary ridden 90 miles in the scorching sun, the wind whipping around their faces and caking them with dust from the dirt road. More sweat pours from Mary’s brow as she experiences the pains of labor for the first time. The stable is packed with all the travelers’ animals. Flies buzz around them in the heat and the air is heavy with the smells of sickly sweet hay and manure.

And into this, a baby enters.

I have witnessed this kind of birth before. Woman sighs and baby falls right into the dirt, and in the dark of a tiny mud hut, with the light of just a thin candle, our eyes search for something, anything, sharp to cut the cord. Water is a luxury and too far to fetch at this hour so we wrap the baby in whatever filthy rag-scraps we can find without even wiping her off first.

Joseph, still merely a child himself, searches for anything he can find in the dim light to cut the cord and swaddle his child, probably rags carrying the afore mentioned stench and the dirt of the journey. Trembling and exhausted they wrap Him as best they can, and swatting flies away lay him in the same trough out of which these animals have been eating.

Behold, the Savior.

And in this moment God fulfils every promise and every prophecy. This, God’s perfect time. God does not wait for the world to get ready, He enters right into the mess.

He makes Himself very least, no more status or opportunity than an easily overlooked infant in the slums where I spend so many hard hours. Very least so that He can commune with the very most desperate – you and me. He doesn’t mind that I am not ready yet and He doesn’t mind the wretched condition of my heart or the stench of my sin. God’s time is now and He enters into the mess, ready or not.

His perfect timing, now. Now is where He has called us. And we are just not ready yet. We need to clean up the house a bit and pray a little more and seek more counsel and we don’t know how to do that yet and oh, we have our excuses. And God says, “I’m here now, and I am ok with the mess because I am here for the messy.”

God doesn’t need us to be ready for Him; He has been ready for us since the beginning of time and the Messiah is here calling us to commune with the Holy One, to eat at His table.

I want the house to be organized and kids to be clean and nicely dressed and I want dinner to come out of the oven on time, but at the end of the day they laundry still piles and there are still crumbs in the corner and can anyone remember if I brushed my teeth today? And it can’t be the New Year yet because I am just not ready for it to be a new year yet.

But I remember when I wasn’t ready to move to Uganda. I remember when I wasn’t ready to kiss the people I loved the most goodbye. I remember when I didn’t have enough money to sponsor just ten children, and I remember when I wasn’t old enough to be a mother, and I remember when I didn’t know how to parent. I remember when I couldn’t cook for fifteen people and when I didn’t want to share my house and my things and my life with sick people and addicts. I remember when I was afraid of the slum community that now holds hundreds of friends and when I was terrified that my daughter would never walk and when I was scared that we would never heal after tragic loss. And I remember that never, not once, was I really as ready as I wanted to be. And I remember that God kept all His promises, every last one, in His perfect time.

This new season looms and I don’t know what is next. But He doesn’t need me to be ready for this season because He is ready. He just needs me to be clinging to His feet.

Now. This is where He has called us.

Over here today... http://www.redletterchristians.org/now-red-carpet-katie-davis/

A little bit more of a candid view into our daily life. I am humbled and thankful!

(and what a goofy picture!)

Just one little bird.

 She’s up when the stillness of 5:30 nudges me awake and I struggle to peel back heavy eyelids. She’s up and she sings. I wonder how she can even tell that it’s almost morning. I wonder why she sings yet. I tip-toe to the coffee pot and flick on barely enough lights as to not wake my children, and this is my quiet time and I briefly just wish that one little bird would be quiet.

“It’s not light yet. Shhhh. It’s not light yet.”

I lift my eyes from the worn pages of Isaiah and my gaze falls on Sarah’s notebook, left haphazardly on the table after yesterday’s writing assignment. She wrote that I was brave. That I had courage. But as I sit there in the dark, I think that I am not.

I miss my friends. I know where they are, and that it is better, by far, than suffering and sickness, but I wish they were here. I miss Betty’s smile as I wiped her forehead and the way her weak hand felt in mine, her fingernails hot-pink. I miss the still, quiet hours by her bedside and the way her eyes understood even if her ears did not.  I miss Katherine’s laugh, loud and audacious and when I see her children smile, I see her, and I wish the ending had been different.

And I see Sarah’s words on the paper, “Our sick friend lived with us for a long time and my mom was brave and took care of her. I saw her praying for her and I know that she was loved and cared for. My mom kept her, and she had courage.”

And I cry, because I do not feel courageous. I feel downright defeated sometimes. Maybe courage is not at all about the absence of fear but about obedience even when we are afraid. Courage is trusting when we don’t know what is next, leaning into the hard and knowing that it will be hard, but more, God will be near.  Maybe bravery is just looking fear in the face and telling it that is dos not win because I have known The Lord here. I have known The Lord in the long, dark night.

The little bird sings loud in the dark. And slowly, the sun peaks over the horizon.

At school I ask Joyce what her definition of courage is, and she says, “to have faith.” Maybe that is just it. That we still tremble, but more than that we have faith. That even though we feel uncertain, we press into a God who is so certain, so sure, so steady. He carries us, He lifts our heads. And His unfailing love and comfort becomes our courage and our hope.

It is days later and it is raining. The huge drops pelt our tin roof so hard that we can hardly hear a thing, but as the rain slows, I make out a familiar noise and I laugh. It is the same little bird that cannot contain her song too early in the morning. I wonder where she is and how she can keep singing in this storm. I wonder why she sings. But the rain slows to a trickle and the sun peaks from behind the clouds and suddenly all I can hear is her glorious song.

“To have faith, “I think. And I wonder, does she sing because she knows the sun is coming?

And I want to be just like that little bird.

Hope is a crazy thing, a courageous thing. That little bird, she feels the sun coming, knows with certainty that it will come, even when she can’t quite see it yet.

We live in a world where innocent people suffer and good friends die and stories don’t have the endings we prayed for, and the pain and the hurt, it is everywhere. But the Joy and the Hope that we find in our Savior? It is everywhere, too.  I do not have all the answers; in fact, I don’t have many at all. But this is what I know: God is who He says He is. And in the hurt and the pain and the suffering, God is near, and He is good, even when the ending isn’t.

And I can sing, because I know what is coming. I can hope, because I know Who is coming.

In the dark of the night, I have seen His face, and I have known His promises to be true, and I know the Light is coming.

And I want to be brave enough to hold out the hope of the Gospel to a world that is hurting and alone and afraid. Not a hope that is the absence of pain or heartache or suffering, not optimism disguised as hope that waits for the best-case scenario or happy ending, but a Hope that is the knowledge and full assurance that our Savior is on His way.

It’s not light yet, but I know Him, the One who is the Light.

And so in the dark, I will sing.

Eight-year-old Angela Amoiti lives deep in the Ugandan village of Buyizia. As we travel on the washed out roads, Angela informs us this is her first time in a motorcar. Winding roads and thick trees hide the home where this beautiful girl lives with her mother, father, and sister Sarah.

Neighboring children meet us on the road and walk alongside the car to Angela’s home... read more about my friend Angela here

Want to keep up with all we are doing over here at Amazima?

Click here!

Here is  our latest:

Last week, Amazima hosted our first support group for Amazima families affected by HIV and AIDS.  It got off to a late start as here in Uganda, "9am" means "around noon." After everyone showed up, we began with a prayer and the workshop began!

Each person in attendance introduced themselves and shared how they are related to Amazima. Glory was given to God while discussing all of the ways he has carried our families. Through the hard times and the good times, everyone agreed that God is good- ALL the time!

Following introductions, we started the day by going over basic information about HIV and AIDS. Although basic facts are pretty well known among the Ugandan families, they are often times mixed with misinformation. This educational segment of the day provided us with a great opportunity to debunk any myths circling around the communities. Our favorite truth to promote?  HIV is NOT a death sentence!

Read more...

I know, I kind of abandoned ship here for a while. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging.

Katherine’s death has taken me a lot longer to process than most things usually do. Maybe because it felt like a big final loss after a season of lots and lots of losses. Maybe because I have a tendency to want to see redemption here and now, to want to tie it all up in a neat little package, even though I know that His ways are not my ways and a “good ending” is not always seen in this lifetime. Maybe because I feel that I should have some kind of understanding before I bear my heart to the world.

Friends, God is still good and God is still working. In a season of much loss and much hardship, He whispers, “Look how far I have carried you. And still I go before you.”

But trying to tell you where I am at right now feels a little like trying to serve grape juice as wine. Words on a screen feel like a cheap substitute, unable to capture the grace and the mercy that God has shown us during this season, unable to explain the nearness I have felt and the new ways the Father is revealing His heart to me.

There is joy in this place. There is peace in this place. It is Jesus. He is very near to us. And I am writing it all down in hopes that one day soon I will again feel that it is time to share it with the world.

But for now there is something very sacred about sharing my heart with Jesus only.

Thank you for those of you who continue to check in on us and who continue to pray. That you would sit before the Father on our behalf means more to me than I could ever tell you here.

Betty is still living with us. She is a constant reminder of God’s love to me. Health wise, she is recovering very slowly, but she knows the Savior and she is a fighter. She is full of joy, and it is our joy to care for her.

Simon and his grandmother are also living with us while Simon gains weight and gets ready for another surgery. Simon’s grandmother is darling and extremely devoted to caring for Simon. It is always a bit stretching to share our home with new people for an extended period of time, but I am thankful for the way the Father grows us in community, the way that He can turn strangers into family.

The girls are doing phenomenally well, growing like weeds and doing great in school. Watching them grow in their knowledge and love of the Lord is by far the best part of parenting. Without a doubt, parenting reveals to me more of my own depravity and more of my loving Father’s heart than anything else ever could. I am humbled and grateful.

To all who ask the question, "Are you ok?" The answer is a resounding "Yes." I am more in love with my Savior than I have ever been before. I pray that each day my love for Him would only grow. He is good to us, friends, and He doesn't ever, ever leave.

Thank you, again for your prayers and your love. I will be back soon. You can continue to keep up with Amazima here in the mean time.