A couple years ago, I sat in an Airbnb in Denver with three dear friends and fellow writers. We’d flown in from around the country to laugh, cry, and eat good food with each other. But most of all, we came together to write and make each other better writers.

Over the course of the weekend, each of us had a session where we could workshop our own project with the rest of the group. At that point in my own book writing process, I had about three chapters written, but I needed help putting flesh on the skeleton outlines I had for the others. Together, the four of us jotted down story ideas and relevant Scripture passages. They helped me eliminate redundancies and think through my theology.

Today is the Feast of the Holy Innocents. To be honest, before a few months ago, I’d never even heard of this particular feast day, but it’s one I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this Christmas season. 

The Feast of the Holy Innocents is a day to remember those–the young children, the babies–murdered by Herod the Great when he was trying to search out and kill baby Jesus.

I’ve always had a hard time with this story. Why did it have to shake out like this? Why did the coming of Jesus, our comfort and joy, our hope and light, have to involve such horrific darkness? Why couldn’t God have protected those children?

My mom’s body laid flat on the hospital-style bed in her bedroom. My dad, sister, and I removed her soiled clothes and put clean ones onto her lifeless body. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Her frail frame felt unexpectedly heavy—heavy in my arms, heavy in my soul. Then we waited for her body to be picked up.

Eventually, two men arrived. But they came earlier than we had anticipated, so we asked for more time. Don’t take her. Not yet. We’re not ready.

They kindly came back a few hours later, wrapped her in a black bag and carried my mom’s body out the front door. Just like that, gone. We stood in the entryway for who knows how long hugging, sobbing, clinging onto each other.

I’m not a farmer. This year, I managed to keep a few plants alive inside my house, but other than that and a couple summertime herbs, my agricultural experience is next to nothing. I don’t know what it’s like to rely on the weather for food. But James’ readers know this well, and here he offers a metaphor that helps them understand what it looks like to be patient as they wait. Just like a farmer has to wait for his or her crop to bear fruit and in the process waits for the rains to come, so we wait for the return of the Lord.

When I started this series, it didn’t occur to me that I’d be writing about fights, quarrels, taming the tongue, and similar subjects during such a tense, chaotic year. I spent time studying the book of James earlier in the year, and I wanted to dive deeper into it. It’s practical, convicting, and essential for the Church. But I did not realize from the outset how relevant and how personally convicting this short book would be. Honestly, if I knew how much I’d have to wrestle with James’ words in my own life and the responsibility of sharing them on my blog, I’m not sure I would have undertaken this project.

Thankfully, God knew I needed this, and it’s sure been a humbling process. I found that to be especially true as I studied this section.

This week, I’m finally reentering the online world. I took about a month off from blogging and social media, and gosh, it was so, so needed. I’m excited to be back—and a little nervous.

I finished 2019 feeling worn down and weary in my soul. That’s probably not a good place to be when my aim is to help you find nourishment for yours. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been reflecting, goal setting, and praying through how to move forward in my writing, speaking, and online life. I wish I could tell you I had a vision from God telling me the next ten steps to take and exactly how to move forward in 2020.

Many nights, I lay my head on the pillow and the quietness of the evening makes my thoughts all the louder. I scroll through questions in my mind from mundane to meaningful. Did we close the garage door? Did I just hear the kids call out? Was my friend offended by what I said? Shouldn’t I be doing more about all the problems in the world? Why does God allow such suffering? What if my daughter’s fever gets worse? Do my kids have to bring a snack to preschool tomorrow? It’s like the questions are ping-pong balls flying through my brain. Even if I answer each one, another comes flying back at me.