He Didn’t Wait for the Mess to Clear, He Came Anyway

God Didn’t Avoid the Mess. He Entered It.

It still stops me in my tracks that the Savior of the world entered the world through a woman. Through a mother.

God could have come any way He wanted.

In power.

In glory.

In fire.

He could have torn the sky open and made His arrival unmistakable. But He didn’t.

He chose a woman’s body.

A mother’s hands.

A willing yes.

And I can’t help but think, wouldn’t you expect God to make it easier for Mary?

An open room.

A soft bed.

A clean place to rest.

He didn’t.

Instead, Jesus entered the world through discomfort.

Through mess.

Through uncertainty.

Through a story that didn’t look ideal or safe or well-planned.

There was no ‘perfect setting’.

No control over the outcome.

No assurance that things would unfold gently.

And maybe that’s the point. God doesn’t always remove the hard. He enters it.

He doesn’t wait for life to be tidy or settled or healed before He shows up. He comes into bodies that ache. Into stories that feel unfinished. Into lives that don’t look the way we thought they would.

There is something deeply reassuring about that for me, especially when life has unraveled in ways we didn’t choose.

God entering the world this way feels intentional. Almost as if He wanted us to know, from the very beginning, that He is not afraid of uncertainty. That He is not intimidated by mess. That He does not stand at a distance waiting for us to get ourselves together. (I don’t know about you, but this is so comforting to me!)

He steps into the hard with us.

Mary couldn’t have known how everything would turn out.

She didn’t have a clear roadmap.

She didn’t have guarantees or control.

She had questions.

Fear.

A body carrying something unimaginably holy and impossibly heavy.

And still, she carried Him.

She said yes without knowing all the details.

Yes without knowing how much it would cost.

Yes without knowing how her heart would one day break watching her Son suffer.

There is something profoundly familiar about that kind of yes.

Because when you’ve experienced deep loss, especially the kind that changes the trajectory of your life, certainty disappears. The future becomes foggy. You learn how little control you actually have.

And yet, somehow, you keep going.

You wake up.

You breathe.

You carry what has been entrusted to you: grief, love, memory, responsibility, even when the weight feels unbearable.

And when I remember that God entrusted these things to me, something shifts. The weight doesn’t disappear, but it no longer feels meaningless.

If you are a widow reading this, or someone who has walked through the death of a dream, a marriage, a version of life you thought was secure, this matters: Mary carried the Savior of the world into an uncertain future, and God did not ask her to do it because it would be easy - He asked her because she was willing.

And maybe that tells us something important.

That faith is not the absence of fear.

That obedience does not require certainty.

That courage can coexist with trembling hands.

And that if God chose to enter the world through uncertainty once, He is still willing to meet us there (and here) now.

The miracle of Christmas didn’t begin in a palace or a place of power.

It began in the unseen.

In the quiet faith of a woman carrying heaven into the world.

And motherhood, in all its forms, still looks like that.

So much of it happens in the unseen.

The quiet work no one applauds.

The steady love poured out day after day.

The prayers whispered over children, or carried silently in the heart.

God entrusted the greatest story ever told to a mother. Let that settle.

The seeds you’re planting matter.

Even the ones no one sees.

Even the ones that feel buried beneath exhaustion, grief, or uncertainty.

And maybe that’s why Christmas doesn’t need our perfection.

Or our performance.

Or our frantic effort to make everything just right.

Because God didn’t enter the world in a rush. He came quietly. Gently. Into the unseen.

And still, here we are. Hurrying. Striving. Filling every space with movement.

Which brings me to what stirred in my heart this morning…

When Christmas Comes After Loss

…this is where the Christmas story becomes personal for me.

Because when you’ve walked through grief, the kind that permanently alters your life, the holidays don’t land the same way anymore.

You still love the season.

You still show up.

You still do the things.

But there’s a quieter layer underneath it all.

Grief sharpens your awareness of what’s missing, or who’s missing, even while you’re genuinely grateful for what remains. You can feel both at once. The joy doesn’t disappear, but it carries an echo.

And suddenly, the story of God entering the world through mess and discomfort doesn’t feel distant or symbolic.
It feels familiar.

There are empty spaces now.

Changed traditions.

A different rhythm to the day.

Moments that once felt full now feel tender. Things you never thought twice about can suddenly stop you in your tracks.

If I’m honest, there are moments when I catch myself doing what Martha did, filling the space with movement. Staying busy. Managing details. Making things look like Christmas on the outside, even when my heart feels tender underneath.

Martha is a woman we meet in the Gospel of Luke. Jesus comes to her home, and while He’s there, she does what many of us would do, she gets to work. Preparing. Hosting. Making sure everything is right.

Meanwhile, her sister Mary sits at Jesus’ feet: listening, present, still.

Martha eventually voices her frustration.

She’s overwhelmed.

She feels alone in the work.

And Jesus responds gently, not by shaming her effort, but by naming her weariness.

“You are anxious and troubled about many things,” He says. “But only one thing is necessary.”

In other words: You don’t need to do all of this to have Me. I’m already here.

That line feels especially relevant this year.

This morning, Christmas Eve, I woke up and immediately started making my mental to-do list.

One more grocery store run.

Stocking stuffers.

Clothes to iron.

Meals to think through.

Details to manage.

…and in the middle of that familiar rush, those words surfaced again. You don’t need to do all of this to have Me.

Grief teaches us how to function.

How to carry on.

How to keep moving forward even when the ground beneath us has shifted.

It teaches us how to survive, but it also leaves us tired.

Tired of holding it together.

Tired of being “fine.”

Tired of keeping pace with a season that no longer fits the way it once did.

This is where the story of Christmas meets us gently.

Jesus didn’t wait for the pain to resolve before entering the world.

He didn’t wait for things to be whole again.

He didn’t require everything to make sense.

He entered a story that already carried tension, vulnerability, and uncertainty.

Which means if you’re walking through grief this season, if your heart feels divided between gratitude and ache, you are not out of step with Christmas.

You are standing right in the middle of it.

Just like Mary, you may be carrying things no one else can see.

Just like Martha, you may feel the pressure to keep everything moving so the weight doesn’t settle too deeply.

…and just like both of them, you are being invited, not forced, to notice where God is already near.

Not after you’ve finished everything.

Not once you’ve pulled yourself together.

Not when the grief is quieter or easier to explain.

Right here.

Grief does not disqualify you from this season. It doesn’t mean you’re doing Christmas wrong. It doesn’t mean your faith is lacking. It means you are human.

And God has always met humans right here, in the tender places, in the divided heart, in the quiet space between what was and what is.

Carrying and Staying: The Shape of Faith in This Season

When I step back and look at the Christmas story this way, I realize something I hadn’t fully named before.

God didn’t just show us how to enter the world through Mary the mother, He also showed us how to respond through Mary of Bethany.

One teaches us how to carry what God entrusts to us.

The other teaches us how to stay when God draws near.

…and maybe this season, especially for those of us carrying grief, asks us to hold both.

Mary, the mother, said yes to carrying something holy she could not fully understand.

She carried life alongside fear.

Promise alongside uncertainty.

Love alongside the quiet knowing that this calling would cost her deeply.

And still, she carried Him.

That kind of faith doesn’t come from certainty, it comes from trust.

Then there is Mary, the sister, sitting at Jesus’ feet while the world moved around her.

Choosing presence over productivity.

Staying when it would have been easier to keep doing.

That kind of faith doesn’t come from strength, it comes from surrender.

And here’s what feels important to say, especially if you are grieving:

Some seasons ask you to carry what God has entrusted to you.

Other seasons ask you to sit and stay when He draws near.

And many seasons, especially this one, ask you to do both.

You may be carrying grief, responsibility, memory, love, or a life that looks nothing like the one you planned.

You may also be longing for permission to stop striving, stop explaining, stop holding it all together.

Both belong.

You are not weak for needing to sit, and you are not failing because you are still carrying something heavy.

This is the shape of faith in tender seasons.

“I will carry what God has entrusted to me.”And,“I will sit and stay when God draws near.”

If today feels heavy, or quiet, or unfinished…

If your heart is holding both gratitude and ache…

If you are doing your best to honor what was while learning how to live in what is…

You haven’t missed Him.

He came anyway, and He is still here.

Not in the rush.

Not in the performance.

But in the nearness.

And that, somehow, is enough (but we have to let it be just that, enough).

A Christmas Prayer for the One Carrying and Staying

Lord,

For the one reading this right now, the one whose heart is holding both gratitude and grief, would You draw near?

For the one carrying things no one else can see: memories, responsibilities, love, loss, unanswered questions, give them strength that does not come from striving, but from knowing You are with them.

For the one learning how to live in a season that looks different than they expected, steady their steps.

Remind them they are not behind.

Remind them that nothing about their story is wasted.

For the one who feels tired from holding it together, from showing up, from doing what needs to be done, offer them permission to sit. To rest. To stay when You draw near.

Just as You entrusted Mary to carry what was holy, and invited Mary of Bethany to sit at Your feet, teach us how to hold both obedience and presence, faith and rest, movement and stillness.

When the house feels quieter than it used to, fill that space with Your peace.

When grief whispers louder during this season, meet it with Your nearness.

When joy feels complicated, remind us that You are big enough to hold all of it.

Jesus, thank You for coming into the world, not in perfection, nnot in control, but in humility, vulnerability, and love.

As surely as the dawn, come to the weary.

Come to the grieving.

Come to the one learning how to carry what You’ve entrusted to them, and how to sit and stay when You are near.

Hold them. Guide them. Remain with them.

In Your holy and gentle name ,Amen.