This morning, I’m thinking about time.

God only operates in time with us because we can’t operate without it, but once in awhile, He’ll do something that stuns me: He removes the structure of time and reminds me that His plans aren’t limited by anything. What really gets me is how tender He is, even when He’s parting my sea of fear, or breaking down a mountain of doubt.

In the spring of 1994, my husband Jim and I visited the tulip fields north of Seattle, Washington with daughter Kate and her fiance, Ben. Photos were taken, and Kate filed away her favorite of Jim and me kneeling among the tulips, in case she wanted copies later.

Later came in mid December of 1996 when Jim died of a rare disease. December 24th was the date of our wedding anniversary, but that year, as our family gathered at Ben and Kate’s house, we were minus an important person, and feeling waves of grief.

In my family, not every Christmas was the-best-ever, but every Christmas had joy in it. In Jim’s experience, a childhood of deep poverty tainted Christmas, and it carried over into his adult life. Although he didn’t toss cold water on our glowing hearts during the holiday season, he also never thought of Christmas as “merry,” and really just indulged the rest of us as we threw ourselves into festivities. When it came to Jesus, the reason for the season, Jim was wholehearted in his worship, and for years I prayed that he might enjoy a broader celebration of the birth of Jesus….that he might say “Merry Christmas,” and rejoice in it.

Now, here we were, without Jim on Christmas Eve, but not in despair. Maybe you already know, but in case you don’t, when our lives belong to the Lord, we experience the wonder of joy in the midst of grief, of laughter mixed with tears, of peace in the midst of life’s storms. And that’s how we were as we gathered around the table that Christmas Eve of 1996. We were hurting, but also mending.

After dinner, Katie handed me a gift. That morning, she’d had the urge to find the photo of Jim and me taken in the tulip fields two years earlier, have it enlarged, and frame it as an anniversary gift. It took time to find the snapshot. Then it took more time to get an emergency enlargement, buck holiday traffic to the frame shop, pick out the frame and matting. She raced to pick up the finished product with only an hour to spare before dinner.

“Mom,” said Kate, tears welling up in her eyes as she handed me the gift, “there’s something special about this. It’s something that couldn’t be seen in the original, and I was too rushed to see it until I was wrapping it.”

I removed the shiny paper and looked at the familiar picture of Jim and me smiling among the tulips. Then I saw it.

On the tulip marker right against Jim‘s knee, were the words, “Merry Christmas!”
I know it was a message from a soul finally home.

Finally rejoicing.
And God had designed it two years earlier.

Ruth Kellsh 2005