Photo by Ray Hennessy on Unsplash I remember clinging to Psalm 91 while our family lived in China as if it was oxygen giving me my next breath. Our youngest daughter Kelly, just three at the time, battled many strange illnesses while we lived in Beijing, and I was often consumed with fear for her safety. I read and prayed Psalm 91 over her so often that I ended up memorizing it without even trying. Years later we learned that Kelly’s in-laws prayed the same psalm over our son-in-law Cal when he was a newborn with viral meningitis. What a gift to know that Kelly’s future husband was being prayed over with the same promises from Psalm 91 when he was just a baby. I see Psalm 91:1 as our 911 promise of rescue: “He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High, will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.” Some call Psalm 91 the soldier’s song, as many have prayed it over their loved ones in the armed forces when they’re deployed. Others see it as a warfare psalm, teaching us how to fight the good fight against the enemy of our souls. Though no author is mentioned in the Hebrew text of this psalm, Jewish tradition ascribes it to Moses as he wrote Psalm 90, while others say David wrote it—a mighty warrior himself.   Regardless of who “wrote” it, I know it was inspired by our Most High, Almighty God. It’s a psalm filled with the wonder of the different names of God, and it declares His protection over us again and again. If you’re a Baby Boomer like I am, memorize this psalm while you can still remember things, and pray it over your grandchildren. Or if you’re a young mom, pray it when fear grips your heart for your little ones. Just in the first two verses we see four majestic names of our God: Most High (El Elyon in Hebrew, which means the Highest of the high), Almighty (El Shaddai, which means God of the Mountains in Hebrew), LORD (Yahweh, built on the word for “I am” in Hebrew), God (Elohim, most commonly used word for God in Hebrew). How beautiful to know that “Whoever dwells in the shelter of El Elyon, will rest in the shadow of El Shaddai. I will say of Yahweh, he is my refuge and fortress, my Elohim in whom I…

Twenty years ago, our family of four lived just outside Beijing, China due to my husband’s job. One autumn day, we caravanned with a few other families to a remote part of the Great Wall in our cars, Jeeps, and sidecar motorcycles. To make it even more of an adventure, we decided to bring our tents so we could camp on the Wall that night. My husband drove the motorcycle with our two little girls and their lop-eared rabbit, Moses, tucked in the sidecar. I followed behind in our car loaded with our tents and cooler of food so we could have a BBQ on the Great Wall of China. Arriving at our favorite portion of the Wall—free from crowds and tourists—Rick pitched our tents while the girls and I climbed some steep stairs leading to a part of the Wall that resembled a remnant of a castle, surrounded by a high and strong rampart which is defined as a “wall forming part of a defensive boundary.” Our four-year-old Kelly started singing a Disney movie song, pretending to be a princess, while our six-year-old Christie twirled ‘round and ‘round inside her “castle.” Later that night as the sun began to set, we grilled chicken wings and then roasted marshmallows until the harvest moon lit the outline of the Wall as far as our eyes could see.   Though it’s a memory we will never forget—and it sounds like a magical, storybook life—our three years in China were actually some of the hardest years on our family. Kelly, tiny for her age, battled many illnesses that often gripped my heart with fear for her safety. Rick’s job was extremely stressful, and just navigating the traffic in Beijing often made me wonder if he’d make it home alive after work. The enemy was also stepping up his attacks on me, especially in the area of escalating fear, and there were days I thought that he would win. Years later, when our family was long settled back in the States, I found the pictures from our camping trip on the Great Wall. One of the images was of our two small tents right in front of a portion of the Wall that included ramparts, shelters and strong towers. I realized that for most of my time in China I lived like someone in a tent, fearful and vulnerable to the storms and attacks…

I tried going to Psalm 23 for comfort and hope in the midst of my father’s suffering from cancer, just weeks before his death. Those familiar words that have brought comfort to so many rang hollow to my grieving heart . . . The LORD is my Shepherd; I shall not want. . . Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me . . . Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life . . . Those promises seemed to mock. Peace was elusive. God seemed distant . . . far away . . . uncaring. One morning as I tried turning to Psalm 23 to read those promises over my father while he was in hospice care, my Bible opened to Psalm 22 instead .  .  . My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer, and by night, but I find no rest. In you our fathers trusted; they trusted, and you delivered them. To you they cried and were rescued; in you they trusted and were not put to shame. The psalmist’s cries were the same cries of my heart for my own father. But then as I kept reading, I knew those ancient words weren’t about our suffering, but a prophecy of what our Messiah would endure . . . for us. But I am a worm and not a man, scorned by mankind and despised by the people. All who see me mock me; they make mouths at me; they wag their heads; “He trusts in the Lord; let him deliver him; let him rescue him, for he delights in him!” They have pierced my hands and feet— I can count all my bones— they stare and gloat over me; they divide my garments among them, and for my clothing they cast lots. Suddenly my heart was no longer questioning and groaning for my father, but bowed at the foot of the cross as He bled and died for me. Tears were in my father’s eyes and mine as I finished reading Psalm 22 aloud over us . . . and then I finished by reading Psalm 23, which crescendos to. . . Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the…

My dad passed away only five weeks ago. We just returned to our home in Colorado after being near him in Phoenix the last few months of his life. And, Christmas is coming. It will be simple and quiet this year. A still Christmas. I think Dad’s suffering and death has put the fray of the Christmas season into a new perspective for me. I haven’t purchased one gift yet, and the only Christmas decoration I’ve put out is a treasured manger scene, reminding me our Immanuel is with us. What I love, is that is all okay. A quiet, still Christmas is an unexpected gift. As empty-nesters—with our daughters with their in-law families this Christmas—we’ve chosen a simple Christmas. And in the midst of an especially busy season at work leading right up to Christmas, I’ve given myself permission to . . . Breathe. Grieve. Embrace the quiet and simple this Christmas. I give you permission, too, to find the quiet in your Christmas. (I found this manger scene back in 1982 when I was in Warsaw, Poland, and that country was behind the Iron Curtain. It was like a breath of fresh air—and Light—to find this handmade treasure in a communist country right before Christmas.)