was one of my saving graces.
The other one was Shandi.
Shandi couldn’t have been older than five. She was the first child in the ward that I met. That’s because she was the only child not in her room. She was out at the nurses’ station, among the staff. Among the saints.
Nobody told me why Shandi was there. And I didn’t ask. What was clear was that no parents, no family at all, were there to be with her on Christmas Eve.
And so, hers was the first gift to go. Unaware of what was inside of the wrapping I placed it in her tiny hands. She held it sweetly but didn’t attempt to open it, as though she didn’t know what it was or that it was meant for her.
Perplexed, I looked at one of the nurses watching over her. Shandi turned to her as well and handed it to her as though it was a mistake that she’d received it. The nurse took it and gently said, “Okay, we’ll open this a little later,” and set it on the duty counter.
Another teary-eyed nurse jumped in and began to guide me to the first room. I had turned and begun to follow her when I felt a little tug on my finger. Little Shandi had decided she was coming with me.
She held my white-gloved index finger inside her tiny curled fist as we walked to the first room. As soon as I stepped in, she let go. It was a heart-melting start to the whole gig, and more than a bit overwhelming. I navigated my first room visit as best I could and said a merry goodbye. And when I reached the hallway, Shandi was waiting for me.
She reached out and took my finger, led me to the next room, and released. The nurses were as speechless as Saint Nick. Room to room, without saying a single word, Shandi guided Santa Claus by the finger across a complete floor of unwell children.
I reflect on Shandi every single Christmas. I have told my children this story countless times.
What is it a little sick girl with no family by her side knew that the rest of the world seems to miss?
I truly believe that she knew, and, I pray, still knows all these years later, that which matters most. That which soften hearts, lifts people up, brings people hope, and causes peace that passes understanding. For, ironically, it is the same stuff that keeps rookie Santas on their feet.
Nearness.
What is it we long for most from the precious few in our lives who are like oxygen to our souls? Nearness.
What is it that nourishes us, sustains us, fills us to full and heals us, when there are no words or actions to give or take from the ones we love and the ones we want to love us in return? Nearness.
What is it that restores hope, preserves dignity and turns isolation into belonging? Nearness.
What is it that brings light into the darkness and comforts us through our greatest fears? Nearness.
Countless scribes and scholars, preachers and teachers, have written, and will continue to write, for the rest of mortal time, about why God would send His Son as a tiny baby, to grow from a boy to a man, to be sacrificed on a cross and ultimately defeat death. Those pure of heart and led by the Spirit have been correct, and will continue to be correct, when they guide our intellect through Scripture and help shepherd our hearts through the great maze of faith. But on those days when words are somehow lost on us, when our good senses have malfunctioned, when loneliness and insecurity and uncertainty override the human condition, what is the one wordless thing we need most to be assured of?
His nearness.
That Jesus would come to us as a baby, that He would rebuke His disciples for undervaluing the presence of children, that He would later tell us that we need to become like children to enter His kingdom—could it then be any more wildly perfect that the ultimate shared prayer of longing for every human being who looks to Him would show up centuries later in a children’s Christmas carol?
“Be near me, Lord Jesus.”
Why do I think the Christmas story unfolded as it did?
So I, so we, would be assured of His nearness.
“Away in a Manger,” third verse:
Be near me, Lord Jesus
I ask Thee to stay
Close by me forever,
And love me I pray.
Bless all the dear children
In Thy tender care
And fit us for heaven,
To live with Thee there.
_________________________
REFLECTION AND DISCUSSION
A Companion in the Valley
“I just knew that little lads and lasses aren’t meant to be hooked up to beeping machines with rubber tubes on Christmas Eve.” Or ever. Ever. And yet there they are. Every day. There is just so much that makes no sense in this world. There is so much pain, and the suffering of children is among the toughest to comprehend and endure. Oh, to have answers and solutions for such suffering.
In the absence of answers that satisfy, we are offered a promise of nearness: “The LORD is close to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). The gift of His nearness is the offer of a companion for the hardest journeys. Of course, a companion doesn’t make a valley any less of a valley. What a companion does, though, is offer comfort and care along the way. The kind of comfort we receive in His nearness replenishes us in ways we often can’t measure. It fills out our frames so we can stand; it keeps us on our feet, helps us take the next step, and then the next and then the next.
His nearness can be experienced in many ways, including in the love and presence of others. In some seasons, on some days, He brings us a Shandi. Other seasons, other days, He invites us to be a Shandi.
Can you think of a time when you felt God’s nearness to you when you were suffering? When you were broken or broken-hearted? What did it look like? Feel like?
Have you had an experience with a Shandi in your life? Or one in which you were called to be a Shandi?
Nearness and Intimacy
Nearness and intimacy are close (pun intended) but not the same. Intimacy can seem scary because it requires reciprocity; if we want to experience true intimacy, we must open ourselves up, make ourselves vulnerable. But nearness asks nothing of us. Nothing. God’s nearness to us, as Tim notes in this chapter, is the gift we all long to be assured of—God loving us and coming close to us and being with us when we need it most, without any demand on us.
Can you think of a time when you sensed God drawing near and inviting you to draw near to Him?
Do unanswered questions or unresolved pain (or anything else) keep you from drawing near to God?
How often do we draw near to others in their pain and hardships with absolutely no expectation of reciprocity or response?
Does
