The snow whirls sideways in the blizzard winds, and I can’t see a bit of sky, let alone blue sky. My ears hear strands of music in the next room: my third grader laughing as her older brothers tell jokes. On this snow day, I’m thankful for extra time to drink my fill of it. I can’t fathom this music stopping, and the thought brings tears. Again.

My hands move by rote through dishes and laundry and daily to-do’s, but I am sluggish and heart-heavy. My mind wander to Newtown, Connecticut ,where too many homes sit too quiet as they pick out shrapnel of hearts torn to bits, routines destroyed.

I pray it out loud:

Dear God, hold them in the quiet, and let them hear You speak.

For the past week, I’ve been remembering my years as an elementary school music teacher. I was 6 months pregnant with twins and teaching at Mark Twain Elementary when Columbine happened. After that terrible day, our school alongside thousands of others practiced lockdown drills more than once. Mrs. Lindberg would call out the “code sentence” over the intercom, and we teachers would quietly lock doors before moving the kids to a part of the room shielded from windows. My room had no closet or bathroom, but it did have a deep corner. We huddled there ’til the all clear.

Dear God, when normal feels a million miles away, may they find a deep corner of comfort to rest in You.

When my neighbor JulieAnne asked if I could really really jump in the line of fire for my students – kids who weren’t my flesh and blood – I looked straight into her aqua eyes and said I could and would. Really, it would be second nature for most teachers to do so. After all, good teachers don’t see students as their students, but as their kids. They would stand in the gap for them over and over.

Dear God, may they know your heart stings with loss too, and that your Son stands in the gap for them.

I want to stand in the gap for them, too.

The only thing I know to do is offer prayers. Prayers bridge the gap between broken hearts and hope restored. Prayers move in and out like stitches to bind wounds and redeem dreams. Battles seem lost. But we’ve read the end of the Book and hold proof the war is won. No matter how the enemy thrashes and wrecks havoc, he won’t have the final say.

But how can we trust an Abba who has let the world come to all the grief of the past centuries? Who has given us the terrible gift of free will with which we seem to be determined to destroy ourselves?

We trust the one we call Abba as a child does, knowing that what seems unreasonable now will be seen to have reason later. We trust as Lady Julian of Norwich trusted, knowing that despite all the pain and horror of the world, ultimately God’s loving purpose will be fulfilled and “all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.”

~Madeleine L’Engle, Walking on Water

This season of all seasons, we remember Hope’s first breath came at night in a dark world under bleak conditions, too. Herod’s murderous rampage, oppressive Roman rule. Our Savior shone bright from the beginning.

I look back outside the window. I still can’t see blue sky, but I know it’s there beyond the storm.

I can’t see how everything turns out well, but I know it does.

And in the meantime I pray.

A couple weeks ago, my friend Holley Gerth and I wrote a Christmas series entitled All Things Possible Christmas just for you. Many of you may have missed it because those posts did not go out via email {boo}. So I am including links to the series today. May they wildly encourage your heart and comfort your soul.

All Things Possible Christmas

What Must Happen Before the Miracle

Amazing, Scandalous Grace

When Your Soul Needs to Feel Its Worth

God-sized Dreams

{Jada Smith, you are our giveaway winner. Check your inbox for an email from yours truly.}

The phrase hope of heaven…keeps you spiritually alive during dark times of adversity; it brightens your path and heightens your awareness of My Presence. My desire is that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.

~Jesus Calling by Sarah Young