For You Are Not Forgotten

Thoughts on Mary & two poems

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I’ve Been Thinking About Mary

This Advent season, I keep finding myself thinking about Mary.

Not as a figure behind stained glass.
Not frozen in a nativity scene.
But as a real person with a real body and a real life that suddenly changed.

Mary is everything I want to be.
And everything I am still learning how to become.

Faithful.
Willing.
Trusting.
Loving.
Humble.
Courageous.

I imagine her ordinary days before the angel arrived—the quiet rhythm of life, the plans she held close. A wedding to prepare for. A future that made sense.

And then God interrupts.

Not with a detailed explanation.
But with an invitation.

Mary steps forward in trust to become the mother of Jesus.
She surrenders her image—what people will think, what they will say, what they will assume.
She surrenders her future.
She surrenders her fear and chooses trust when certainty is nowhere to be found.

She doesn’t receive guarantees.
She receives an invitation.

Mary heard the angel say, “Be not afraid.”
And somehow, she wasn’t.

I think about how much courage it took to say yes without knowing how Joseph would respond, without knowing if her community would believe her, without knowing how this story would unfold. Saying yes when obedience could cost her reputation. Saying yes when faith could cost her safety. Saying yes when a no would be understood.

Mary doesn’t clench her fists around control.
She drops her arms.
She opens her hands.
She steps forward.

And she teaches me something I’m still learning:
I may not be able to control what’s happening, but I can continue to walk in love and trust—with open hands.

Mary steps away from the life she dreamed of and enters a life she never could have dreamed of—not because it was easy, but because God was there.

God doesn’t invite her into comfort.
God invites her into presence.

She carries the One we’ve been waiting for in her body, the light of the world growing inside. And still, she sings—not because everything is resolved or known, but because she trusts who God is.

Advent is teaching me that waiting is not passive, surrender is not weakness, and trusting God is a beautiful way to live—it is gathering around the light while learning to trust in the dark.

What a beautiful thing it is to be invited into the unknown by a God who knows.

This Advent, I want to open my hands like Mary.
To loosen my grip.
And to remember:
Be not afraid.

For You Are Not Forgotten

Christ has come and He will come again, but for now, we wait.

Although the darkness has arrived, we’ve not been forgotten.

And I know you know what it feels like to feel like you’ve been forgotten.

To be left behind, stuck outside where it’s always winter and never Christmas.

Waiting weighs you down, puts your eyes on the ground

Tests your patience as your process living in the tension of what used to be and what you will one day see.

And one day we will see.

We will see the snow melt and the sunshine.

And we will see Christ return at the right time.

As you wait, hold on.

Let joy stir up inside as you carry the fire forward.

Stay the course as you make your way through today and into tomorrow.

Set your eyes to the sky as mercy and wonder meet your fear as you wait for Christ to appear.

For He has come and He will come again.

Keep hope close as you watch,

as you wait,

for soon the sun will arrive

and the darkness will hide

and we will leave winter behind.

In the night you can trust the morning will bring the Light.

For you are not forgotten.

This Christmas

You’re allowed to miss what was.
You’re allowed to say, I’ve missed you.
You’re allowed to hold memory like a candle—
warm, flickering, not meant to burn you.

You’re allowed to stay in the bathroom one more minute
just to breathe.
You’re allowed to change the subject.
You’re allowed to disagree—kindly or clumsily.

You’re allowed to wear matching pajamas
or that ugly Christmas sweater.
You’re allowed to come as you are.

You’re allowed to remind yourself
and the people around you
that they are loved
and wanted
and invited to the table—
even when the table feels smaller or different this year.

You’re allowed to thank God.
And thank Him again.
And maybe one more time
for what is
and what is not.

You’re allowed to ask for help.
You’re allowed to say, I’m trying.
You’re allowed to tell someone
they are a gift to you.

You’re allowed to bring what reminds you of home—
a recipe, a story, a name spoken softly,
a tradition that still fits.

You’re allowed to forgive.
You’re allowed to ask for forgiveness.
You’re allowed to be grateful
and sad
and hopeful
all at once.

You’re allowed to leave your phone in the other room.
You’re allowed to leave an open seat at the table—
for memory,
for longing,
for someone not yet here.

You’re allowed to rest.
You’re allowed to laugh louder than expected.
You’re allowed to cry without explaining why.

You’re allowed to slow down
and lean in
to the fragile, holy goodness
that is this gift of a life—
right here,
right now,
this Christmas.

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