Author: Katie Ganshert

Light shines in the darkness. and the darkness has not overcome it.

-John 1:5

Last night I went to a women’s ministry event called Night of Joy.

There were cupcakes and hot chocolate and a boutique where all proceeds went to helping rescue women out of sex trafficking. There was music, and best of all, there was fellowship. Siting around a table, catching up with friends I don’t get to see nearly as much as I’d like.

At seven o’clock, we went into the sanctuary, which was packed, and together we worshiped and listened as a sister in Christ spoke about joy.

Not the fickle, fleeting feeling of happiness. But joy. Deep down, in your bones joy. The kind that has nothing to do with circumstances and everything to do with a person.

She talked about the difference between knowing of God, and actually knowing God.

At the end of the evening, she asked the women who had experienced God as comforter this past year to stand.

I couldn’t stand fast enough, because if there is one thing God has been to me this year, He has been my comfort.

Almost every other single woman stood along with me.

She said to raise our hand if we’ve experienced Him as provider.

I rose my hand high.

She asked us to applaud if we’ve experienced Him as Wonderful Counselor, as someone who’s given us clear direction in the midst of difficult decisions.

I cheered. Because oh, have I.

She went on.

Burden-bearer. Healer. Friend. Father. Rest.  Savior.

Women cheered. Women rose their hands.  Women remained standing.

And then, when she finished, she encouraged us to “go and tell”

Because the world is dark and people are hurting and sometimes, hope is impossible to find.

“Go and tell,” she said, “because this Jesus we worship is too good not to talk about.”

The words are truth.

He is too good not to talk about.

I have seen the risen Savior.

Maybe not with my eyes, but I have seen Him as surely as Mary Magdalene saw Him all those years ago.

He’s brought me joy when there shouldn’t be joy and peace when there shouldn’t be peace. He’s lifted my head. He’s guided my path, especially this year, when we’ve  faced impossibly complicated, confusing decisions. Every single time we hit our knees and begged for guidance, He spoke clearly.

It’s been a year of waiting. A year of missing and yearning and longing. Of frustration and concern and confusion.

And yet, it’s been a good year.

Because He truly is close to the broken-hearted.

He means it when he says, “Come to me, all you who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.”

Do you know this Jesus? This rest-giver, this heart-mender?

I don’t mean do you know of Him. I don’t mean do you go to church. I don’t mean do you call yourself a Christian.

I mean, do you know Him, know Him?

If you don’t, there’s no better time than the advent season to taste and see. To sit and know.

The Bible says that God’s way is perfect. All the Lord’s promises prove true.

Well, God promises that if we draw near to Him, He will draw near to us.

So friends, let’s draw near to Him this Christmas season. Let’s draw near and see what He does.

How have you experienced God’s comfort, peace, and provision this past year?

I’ll be honest.

As this season drew closer, I struggled.

I wondered how it could be a happy one without her here.

You see, I don’t look forward to spending another Christmas with my daughter half a world away. When I first held her in my arms 20 long months ago, I never ever imagined that all these days later, we’d still be apart.

Yet here we are, waiting. Another Christmas will come and go without her.

Call me Scrooge, but I couldn’t foresee getting into the Christmas spirit. Not this year.

Until yesterday happened.

I stood in church, surrounded by people I love, and I sang these words:

Oh come, let us adore Him.

And it came.

Joy. Hope. Wonder. Awe.

It came without any effort or mustering on my part. I felt it to the very marrow of my bones.

Oh come, let us adore Him.

You see, the Israelites had been waiting too, with nothing but silence to fill that wait. FOUR HUNDRED years worth of silence. Four hundred years since Malachi penned his final word.

The world was broken and lost and filled with darkness. God seemed absent. Where was their promised savior?

And then. . .

Then HOPE was born.

Finally, He came! And not at all as they expected their king to come.

God reached down into this dark world. He wrapped Himself in flesh and vulnerability. He became as low as a baby. To live among us. To walk among us. To be the rescue we couldn’t be for ourselves.

Oh come, let us adore Him.

He left GLORY, knowing full well the price He would pay, the burden He would bear, the pain He would endure.

For you. For me. For us.

This is Christmas.

This is hope.

For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. 

I worried I wouldn’t be able to get into the spirit this year. But I worried for nothing.

Yes, I miss my daughter. I feel her absence profoundly, especially now, as we put up the tree and hang the stockings and wrap presents while her bedroom remains dark and empty upstairs. The ache is real.

And yet, hope is real, too. Like electricity before a lightning strike, hope charges the air. So tangible it raises the hair on my arms.

Can you feel it?

I hope you can.

If you’re struggling this season, I hope that you meet Him in a way you never have before. I hope you see with fresh eyes how very worthy He is of our adoration. I hope you experience all the magic, all the wonder those shepherds must have felt the night the angels sang of His birth. I hope you find a Bible and open up to this good news that is our rescue, and experience the inevitable joy that comes with knowing Him. Joy that has nothing to do with the circumstances of the moment, and everything to do with this small baby in a manger. Immanuel. God with us.

Hope has come!

Oh come, let us adore Him.

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