Telling the Truth for Women

Pete Briscoe: Royal birth, God in embryo, growing to birth size, a baby boy became. Wrapped in swaddling bands of grace, a light was lit in a bale of hay, setting the world on fire. Roses in December, Lord, You are to me, bringing life and fragrance, sweet vitality.

This is Pete Briscoe with Roses in December, a Christmas card to you from my mom, Jill Briscoe. Over the years, I've seen and heard my mom pray, lots of prayer. She calls it going to her deep place where nobody goes. As a kid, I'd heard both Mom and Dad praying for people I'd never heard of, strangers, except for some reason, Mom and Dad knew who they were and poured their heart out to God on their behalf. Often, I'd hear my own name too.

There's no question that my mom loves her family, and that most certainly includes her 13 grandchildren. I know because three of those kids are Libby's and mine. Two of ours, Annika and Liam, join Nana today in this, her first Christmas special. Jill's sharing her intimate conversations with God from that deep place where nobody goes. Here's Jill. Join her with your heart and thoughts for Roses in December.

Guest (Female): When God brings His firstborn into the world, He says, "Let all God's angels worship Him."

Jill Briscoe: The Son is the radiance of God's glory and the exact representation of His being. Jesus, my sunbeam. I was sitting in the warm sunshine thinking about Jesus, and I thought about the sun and the way the outshining or radiance of it looked like arms of sun-ness coming from the big ball in the sky.

I remembered drawing the sun as a child and how I would draw it with lines coming out from the big ball of fire. They were the sunbeams. As I grew, I learned the sunbeams are of the same essence as the sun itself. They're made of the same stuff. Then I read in Hebrews about Jesus being of the same essence as God Himself. God is like the sun. Christ is the sunbeam, the radiance of God. He is as much God as God, just as the sunbeam is as much sun as the sun. Jesus, my sunbeam, I murmured.

Pete Briscoe: It started with a sunbeam, bound for a crossbeam. A sunbeam from the glory shining on the earth. Beloved of the Father, begotten, not created. Infinitely precious, borrowing my birth. Born a little boy beam, bound for a crossbeam. Favorite of the Father, takes a servant's place. Stripping off His royalty, robed in humanity, smile of His Father with tears on His face.

Born in obscurity, living in poverty, King as a commoner revealing God to men. Carrying my cross for me all the way to Calvary, sunbeam a-dying, then shining again. Shine in my darkest days, teach me to live in praise. Deal with my doubting and use all my pain. Mirrored in my mendedness, helping all my helplessness. Sunbeam of my Father, light up my life again.

Guest (Female): "How will this be?" Mary asked the angel. The angel answered, "The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you."

Jill Briscoe: Have you ever felt overwhelmed? That life is just too much? Too heavy the demands, too painful the problems, too daunting the task? Then hurry to the deep place where nobody goes. I remember such a day. I was overwhelmed. It wasn't one thing but many, and suddenly one morning, I didn't want to get out of bed. So I stayed there for a bit and went and sat down in the deep place on the steps of my soul. You can, even when you're in bed.

I'm overwhelmed, I announced loud and clear, expecting Him to come running. He didn't. I hung around for half an hour or so and became gradually aware of a sweet darkening of the windows of my soul. It was as if someone had drawn the curtains to help a sick child rest better. I lay still. I'm overwhelmed, I said quietly this time. No need to shout. Did not He whom my soul loves say, "My ear is not heavy that it cannot hear"?

The sweet, safe shadow around me deepened, and then His voice said clearly, "When you're overwhelmed, remember that you're overshadowed." Oh, so that was it. The overshadowing. I was under His wings. I remembered Mary, and reaching for my Bible, read a little of her Christmas story and how the beautiful angel came and told her he had come to interrupt all her really personal plans for her life with Joseph.

When told she would be the mother of Messiah, she'd asked a very practical question, "How?" That was a brave question, I said out loud. Yes, He replied, close at hand. She was very brave. She didn't ask "Why me?" She asked "How me?" She was overwhelmed with the "How shall this be, seeing I know not a man?" I can only understand such a small fraction of what she felt, but I can relate to her sense of inadequacy.

That's my problem right now. How can I do so much, care so much, work so much, love so much, travel so much, forgive so much, give so much? It's all so much. I'm overwhelmed. I told you, He began. Yes, I know. When I'm overwhelmed, I've got to remember I'm overshadowed. But Lord Jesus, just what do you mean? Then the wonderful shadow seemed to wrap itself around me and hold me close into God as if it were a warm, comforting heavenly blanket.

The Holy Spirit, He said, knowing I needed no more talk, just touch. The Comforter? Yes, the Comforter. That's what Gabriel told my mother when she was overwhelmed. The Holy Spirit will overshadow you. Ever after, when she was overwhelmed, she remembered she was overshadowed. Wrapped warmly in that same promise and reality, I got up and went out into my day.

The challenges hadn't changed. The stress was there. But I clothed myself in a garment of praise that covered over my spirit of heaviness. It would be alright. I vowed to keep the conversation in my mind. When I was overwhelmed, I would believe that I was overshadowed. Pray with me. Oh, Lord of all comfort, comfort me. Oh, God of all might, strengthen me. Oh, Lord of all joy, I praise Your holy name. Behold Your servant. Be it unto me according to Your word. Amen.

Guest (Male): Behold, Mary will bring forth a son, and they will call His name Emmanuel, which means God with us.

Jill Briscoe: We were celebrating a royal birthday—His. It was Christmas Day morning, and I went to the deep place where nobody goes and looked around and wondered if He was late because the shining ones, the angels, were giving Him His presents. While I waited there thinking about that, I began to greatly wonder about the incarnation and the indescribable gift of a Son born for us on Christmas morning. Divinity clothed with humanity. Jesus.

I worshiped that day with words that came easily. Royal birth, God in embryo, growing to birth size, a baby boy became. Wrapped in swaddling bands of grace, a light was lit in a bale of hay, setting the world on fire. They called Him the carpenter's child. They say He was brought up on Joseph's knees, playing with a piece of wood. He went around healing people, mending the world, being kind to sinners. Christ, His name.

God in Galilean robes, dressed for battle. He met the devil and paid the price, and He won the war. Royal birth, royal life, royal death, royal resurrection. The front door opened, and though I couldn't see Him, the light was blinding. I knew He was there. I caught a glimpse of a gigantic Christmas tree, higher than the heaven, in the shape of a cross. There was a star at the top, and Eastern Kings in white robes were pointing to it.

The angels were singing carols, and I caught some human words that sounded familiar. I remembered then that they had penned on earth something about "Our God contracted in a span, incomprehensibly made man." Glory to God, sang the shining ones—millions of them. Jesus said that that was His best Christmas present. He loves to honor His Father. I joined in with my whole heart. Christmas had begun.

Guest (Female): The Father of compassion and the God of all comfort comforts us in all our troubles.

Jill Briscoe: I put the book down. It was a wonderful book written by an Englishman who had had profound things to do with my conversion years ago. It told of winter without Christmas and how the spring came in the heart of humankind when a lion roared because a baby cried. I read the book most often at Christmas time when humankind was trying their silly best to celebrate wintermass without any spiritual reference to the reason for the season.

I went to the deep place where nobody goes to apologize for the human race. It's not your fault, You said comfortingly. We talked about the week's work. Right up to Christmas Eve night, one after another had found their way to my life to talk about the winter in their souls. It had been pretty depressing. Winter came, said one, stripping my life, icing my soul, drenching my dreams with dark depression. What happened, I asked.

Well, my husband left me for a younger model, unmarred by mothering and managing, worrying and working, and mildewed by middle age. Then there was the elderly man who'd been faithful to his firm all his life and was due for retirement. He said, I just lost my job. They're making way for the next generation. Don't have to pay them as much. Now I'm redundant and have lost my benefits and my wife is sick.

What about our retirement? I'm a victim of the economy, so they say, and I suppose they're right. But how will I pay the rent? I thought about the stream of people visiting my life. Winds howling around the hollow hallway of their souls, their health tenuous, their relationships frozen solid as ice. I couldn't help remembering the sad words of the mother of a teenager. My child doesn't like me very much.

Well, not at the moment. If I'm honest, I don't very much like my child. Don't ask me what she's into. I don't want to know. I had such high hopes for her. Then a sister called me in tears of concern for her brother—the one who came out of the closet right into their living room, spoiling the Christmas party and shocking the family. He didn't need to invite his partner, she sobbed. It was right in our face.

No, he didn't need to invite him, but then it happens. Winter came, stripping their lives, freezing their feelings, numbing their minds. As the wonderful book I was reading said, they were all experiencing a winter without Christmas. We sat and thought about it all—Him and me. At least I supposed He was thinking about it, but then He could have been planning the sunshine, counting His angels, or just being God. Jill? I jumped.

Yes, Lord? Do you remember when the robin's song blessed the bitter winter in your soul and a baby's cry lit up your life, warming your spirit till it stopped shivering and smiled again? Oh, Jesus, yes. You came into my winter. Show them how I can come into theirs. I tried. I know you did. Keep trying. Call them back. Follow up. Once isn't enough. I'm the only answer. I know.

I knew He was right. They had to hear the lion roar. Tell them I would wrap them in divinity's down, salvation's swaddling bands, insulating them against all the below-zero experiences of life. I'll tell them that. He left then, and I picked up the wonderful book and finished it and I sat very still on the steps of my soul, thanking God for men like C.S. Lewis, whose writings walked into my life and caused me to hear the Lion of the tribe of Judah roar.

Guest (Male): They will follow the Lord. He will roar like a lion, and when He roars, His children will come trembling.

Pete Briscoe: Lion of Judah, Great I Am, yet Son of God and gentle lamb. The one who made all human life, yet babe in womb of Joseph's wife. Majestic one who naked came to dress Himself in human shape. Naked twice, in crib, on cross, Lord of all who suffered loss. Lion of Judah, Great I Am, yet Son of God and gentle lamb. Powerful voice of God Most High, yet limited to baby's cry.

Mighty Father from above, yet needing now a mother's love. Helper, hope of Israel, helpless now, Emmanuel. Lion of Judah, Great I Am, yet Son of God and gentle lamb. Majesty displayed in space, lets me look into His face. Meekness brings You near today, a Christmas babe in trough of hay. A mighty God, a tiny child, omnipotence so meek and mild. Lion of Judah, Great I Am, yet Son of God and gentle lamb.

Lion of Judah, Great I Am, yet Son of God and gentle lamb. Came to Joseph, shepherd king, to those who needed songs to sing. So hurting women, broken men, could find new life, be born again. Because of Him, the gentle lamb. Lion of Judah, Great I Am.

This is Pete Briscoe. You're listening to Roses in December, a special Christmas card from Jill Briscoe to you in these intimate conversations with God. Let's meet Jesus at the manger.

Guest (Male): She wrapped Him in a cloth and placed Him in a manger because there was no room for them in the inn.

Jill Briscoe: A manger holds the secret for a world of fear and doubt. A baby boy lies in the hay. Now what's that all about? Well, the Christian says that God in Christ came down to make a way so we could have our sins forgiven and go to heaven one day. How could God lie unvisited when Bethlehem passed on by? And people that first Christmas Day ignored a baby's cry?

They were busy partying and seeing family. So what's the difference in our world of cruel neglect to be? The shepherds did their best to tell the world and do their part. They met Him at the manger, and they let Him have their heart. And kings that came to worship and risk King Herod's fury returned to tell their land of Him and His salvation story.

So why not bring your mind to bear on God's great gift of grace? And as you watch sweet Mary wipe the tears from His face, resolve to seek with all your soul the Christ who gave it all, the gift of incarnation within that cattle stall. Lord, may we meet You at the manger of our hearts. Amen.

Guest (Male): You know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though He was rich, yet for your sakes He became poor, that you through His poverty might become rich.

Jill Briscoe: It's hard when you can't get home to be with family for Christmas, or Thanksgiving, or a special birthday. Jesus' birthday was coming up. Christmas was just around the corner. What should I give Him, I wondered. I thought about flowers, and suddenly that triggered a very vivid memory of a meeting in Singapore, where a veteran missionary had shared an experience on the mission field.

It was to do with trying to get home, not for Christmas, but for his mother's 90th birthday. Because of a crisis and the primitive circumstances in which he worked—he had a leadership role in the mission—it was impossible to get away. It broke his heart. That must have hurt, I pondered as I listened to him. How difficult both for him and his mother. It hurts so badly when those we love can't get home for the holidays.

Well, I thought, at least Jesus will be home for Christmas this year. He wasn't always able to make it. For 33 years, it was impossible. He had a leadership role in the mission. The missionary told us how he had the brilliant idea of sending his mother 10 roses each hour of her birthday till she'd received all 90. He tied a thank you note to every rose and sent her a card with the first batch of 10 and it said, "How do I love you? Let me count the ways."

Then he thought of 90 ways he loved his mother and attached a different thank you to every rose. I'll do that, I decided. I bought a big bunch of roses, went to the deep place where nobody goes, and sat down on the steps. If I stayed still enough, I could hear angels singing carols, practicing. Pretty. Hello! I jumped. Oh, hello. I thought I'd get ahead of the rush.

He looked at the roses in my hands and I resisted the urge to give Him the whole bunch at once and return to the mall to continue my shopping. I did have a busy day ahead of me; after all, Christmas was coming. I began taking the roses out one by one and carefully attaching a message to each, and I said loudly so He could hear me, "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways." Then I began to count them.

I wanted above all to thank Him for being willing not to get home for Christmas for 33 years. He sat there relaxed. He must have done all His shopping already. He looked serious and focused. I love that. He accepted each offering into His hands, and I tried not to look at the scars. I hate that. I love You for sitting on the steps with me in the deep place where nobody goes, I began, handing Him a flower.

I love it that You always follow me up the steps and remind me You're there in the shallow place where everyone lives, even though I forget You're there in all the commotion. I love You for coming to earth and walking straight into my heart and making this woman Yours forever. Oh, how I love You for becoming poor so I could become rich beyond measure. Yes, Lord. That I through Your poverty could become rich, I love You.

Rose by rose I thanked Him, telling Him all the ways I loved Him. Then the bunch of flowers was in His hands, and mine were empty. I cried, just like now. Happy, grateful tears. I watched in amazement as each tear became a rose petal strewn at His feet. He bent down, holding my roses carefully, gathering my flowers of love and thankfulness into His scarred hands and saying quietly, "Not one of these shall fall to the ground."

Then He looked at me with eyes so full of love, I thought I'd die. Then He was gone. I heard the church bells ringing then, and I knew I had to return to the shallow place where everyone lives. I did so reluctantly, knowing the party was about to begin. Christmas was coming.

Pete Briscoe: Roses in December, Lord, You are to me. Bringing life and fragrance, sweet vitality. Blooming when I'm jaded, lacking joy and power. Oh, Jesus, Rose of Sharon, God's most precious flower. Roses in December, fragrance of the one whose petals bore the dew of death when my salvation won. Crushed by death's endeavor and the punishment You bore. Jesus, Rose of Sharon, Thee I do adore.

Roses in December, in our darkest hours, soul and body freeing from death's gruesome powers. When our days are dreary, and when the winter starts, Jesus, Rose of Sharon, bloom within our hearts. Amen.

Jesus, the Rose of Sharon that Solomon speaks of in the Bible that was such a beautiful part of the landscape of the ancient world. In your darkest hours, when your days are the worst ever, when the winter starts, let Jesus bloom away in your life.

Guest (Female): My Nana Jill says only God can paint a rose.

Pete Briscoe: Roses in December.