Isaiah 12:5
Isaiah 12 should be an easy chapter to read. It's a simple song of praise to God for His character, His kindness, His works, and His greatness.
But every time I came to it this week, my eyes glazed over a little bit. For me, this is not an ideal Christmas season. My husband has knee surgery this week. Our house is getting re-roofed sometime in the next ten days or so. The costs of several monthly bill payments have gone up. We have decisions to make and long-term outcomes to consider, events to schedule and things to buy and conversations to anticipate. I've actually had nightmares about being on the Titanic as it's sinking.
"I will trust and not be afraid," say the verses from Isaiah 12. But that can feel a little nebulous when there's so much that seems worthy of fearing. Romans 15 takes it further. "As you trust in him," Paul says, the God of hope will fill you with joy and peace.
Joy and peace. Christmas ornament words. Christmas card sentiments. Real life experiences?
Between the crunch of finances, the filled-up calendar, the social media expectations, and the social reality let-downs, December is probably the last month of the year that should be labeled with the words joy and peace. Wreaths decorated with the words disappointed and anxious wouldn't sell as well, but they might be more realistic.
Yet somehow, we're promised peace and joy. In this season, and in every season. But peace and joy don't just sneak up on us when we're worried, frustrated, or envious. They aren't waiting to pounce. They're waiting to be found. Peace and joy come from trusting. Trusting. The action that seems like inaction, but is actually the most conscious and intentional thing we do, because fretting is what we do best and avoiding it is an active choice.
So when we trust - when I trust - instead of being afraid, instead of comparing and wallowing and complaining, we are finally freed to find peace. We discover that it's possible to feel joy. Trusting doesn't have to feel vague. It's the act of silencing the thoughts that creep in when someone else's life looks better than mine, the act of choosing not to whine about yet another unexpected setback, the act of walking into a new week with a smile instead of a wince, the act of sharing.
When we do these things, we find that peace and joy are not far behind. And following them? Hope.
Romans 15 says that once we've found the joy and peace that come from trusting, we will soon find ourselves overflowing with hope. While we're counting down the days of advent, checking off the last twenty-some days of 2015, hope can rise in us, filling up the places that were once pockets of self-pity or doubt or even anger.
Tonight, at the close of this week, I read Isaiah 12 again. Finally, I saw hope there.
"I will praise you, O Lord.
Although you were angry with me, your anger has turned away and you have comforted me.
Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid."
God's anger - the anger He righteously had for my sins and yours - has turned away. It has turned onto His Son. Instead of acting on His anger toward me, He redirects anger toward Christ and aims comfort toward me. Whatever comes into my story is an extension, somehow, of this comfort, of this goodness. This is why I can trust. This is why I can hope. This is hope. Salvation comes. Bottomless wells of it. Comfort comes. Joy comes. Good tidings come. And these are the things I choose to decorate with this December: the things that can be written on a postcard, but are best written on a heart.
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