Take Notice of Who you Are with this 1 minute reflection Take a deep breath. Place your hand over your heart, and feel the quiet pulse beneath your palm ... the steady rhythm that has carried you through every season of your life. As you breathe, remember this truth: the body ages, but the soul does not. Let your awareness sink beneath the surface ... beneath the tired shoulders, beneath the weathered hands, beneath the years gathered gently around your eyes. There, in the center of your being, notice the child who still lives within you. The child who once ran barefoot through summer grass. The child who believed in the goodness of morning light. The child who laughed freely and loved without hesitation. That child is still here. Still bright. Still whole. Still untouched by time. Breathe again ... slowly, kindly. As you inhale, imagine light filling your chest, warming the timeless self within you. As you exhale, release the weight of aging, the judgments of the mirror, the stories the world tells about what it means to grow old. Feel the soft truth rising: *I am more than this body.* *I am more than these years.* *I am the ageless one within.* Let this awareness expand. Let it soften the places inside you that feel worn down or forgotten. Let it comfort the tender parts of your heart that wonder how so much time has passed. Now, place compassion on your own name. Speak inwardly with gentleness: *May I be kind to this aging body.* *May I be tender with this unchanging soul.* *May I walk into each day with peace and with wonder.* *May I remember who I truly am.* Feel gratitude rise ... for the years that shaped you, and for the eternal spark that remained untouched. Take one more slow breath. And as you open your eyes, carry this blessing forward: Though the body grows older, the soul grows clearer. Though the vessel changes, the light inside stays young ... forever a child of God, forever becoming, forever loved.
Settle into your breath for a moment. Let your shoulders soften. Let your jaw unclench. There is nowhere else you need to be right now. When I was seven, I knew Jesus without trying. You may have too. Not through explanations, not through effort ... just through the quiet knowing that He was kind, and that His kindness felt like home. Pause a moment. Let yourself remember a time when faith felt simple. When trust came easily. Life grew louder after that. Heavier. Disappointments had their say. People were cruel. Certainty thinned. And somewhere along the way, we stopped reaching. Not because He ever left ... but because reaching takes courage, a certain determination. Take a slow breath in. And let it go. And yet, here we are again. Older. Wiser in some ways. More tender in others. We don't want to be drawn ... by fear, by pressure, by guilt ... but by the same steady kindness that once felt so familiar. Now we see something we couldn’t see before: His kindness is not weak. It carries a holy yearning inside it. A desire that we would rise. That we would learn from Him. That we would grow into the full height of who we are meant to be. Let that land gently. Jesus does not shame our smallness. But neither does He want us to stay there. With patient hope, He keeps inviting: Come higher. Come learn. Come live more fully. Not as a demand ... but as a promise. “I see who you can become,” His kindness seems to say. “I see your strength. Your depth. Your light.” And suddenly, we remember again ... this is the Jesus we knew early on. The face of God’s tenderness. The One who lifts without pushing. The One who believes in our becoming even when we struggle to believe in it ourselves. We thought we had left Him behind. But all along, He has been waiting for the moment we would reach up again. So we do ... imperfectly, hesitantly, but honestly. Drawn by kindness. Lifted by hope. Learning, slowly, gently, how to live toward the fullness He has always seen in each of us. Stay here for a few breaths. Let His kindness meet you where you are. And let the invitation rise quietly in your heart.
**A Christmas Meditation: The God Who Chose to Become Small** Find a quiet place now. Let your body settle into stillness. Let your breathing slow. There is nothing you need to fix. Nothing you need to prove. Arrive exactly as you are. Take a slow breath in… and release it gently. Again. Allow the noise of the world to soften at the edges. Now imagine the night of Christ’s birth. Not bright with spectacle. Not loud with celebration. But shadowed. Quiet. Ordinary. A cold sky. A small stable. The sound of animals shifting in the dark. The scent of hay. The fragile breathing of a newborn. God comes not as thunder. but as breath. Not as command— but as cry. Not as ruler ... but as child. Let that truth move slowly through you: **The God who shaped the stars chose to be held by human hands.** Feel what this stirs in you. Perhaps tenderness rises. Perhaps grief. Perhaps awe. Perhaps resistance. Perhaps comfort. Whatever comes ... let it come without judgment. Now notice Mary. A young woman with trembling hands. Not fearless. Not certain. Only willing. And Joseph… standing at the edge of mystery, trying to trust what he does not yet understand. Notice how God entrusts Himself to uncertainty, to imperfect love, to fragile courage. Let the meaning settle gently: **God does not wait for perfect faith. He enters shaky faith too.** Let your attention return to the child. So small. So vulnerable. So dependent. And yet—this is Love. Not armored. Not distant. Not defended. Love willing to be wounded. Love willing to need. Love willing to be received or rejected. Ask quietly in your heart: *What does it awaken in me to know that God chose to become this small?* Stay with whatever answer rises. Now gently bring your own life into the stable. Your weariness. Your doubt. Your longing. Your memory of simpler faith. Your questions that still ache. You do not need to arrange yourself. You do not need to clean yourself up. Let yourself simply stand there. And hear this truth whispered into your life: **God does not come because you are strong. He comes because you are human.** Breathe that in. Slowly. Now imagine kneeling beside the manger. You are not asked to believe more. You are not asked to understand everything. You are only invited to be near. To offer your presence. To receive His. Let this quiet prayer rise from your heart, in your own words if you wish: *Jesus, I do not come with certainty. I come with longing. If You are willing to be small for me, I am willing to be honest with You.* Sit now in the stillness for a few breaths. There is no rush. As this meditation draws to a close, hold this truth gently with you: **The miracle of Christmas is not that God became powerful but that God chose tenderness.** And may that same tenderness find its way into: * how you speak, * how you forgive, * how you grieve, * how you hope, * how you love. When you are ready, take one last slow breath in… and let it go. And carry this quiet light with you ... into the rest of this holy season.
An Open Hand Take a moment now and let your body settle. Take a deep breath, hold, Release Again, Breathe in, Hold, Release. Let the sense of Release wash over your body. Notice your hands. If they are clenched, don’t correct them yet. Just notice. Clenched hands often mean we’ve been carrying more than we were meant to. Breathe in slowly… and as you exhale, imagine your fingers loosening ... not because you’re forcing them to, but because they are tired of holding everything together. In your mind’s eye, turn one hand upward. An open palm. Empty. Unarmed. This is not a gesture of giving. It is a gesture of receiving. An open hand says: I cannot hold this anymore. I do not need to. I am willing to be helped. Picture God above you ... not towering, not distant, but leaning down with gentleness and attention. Not rushing. Not demanding. Simply reaching. God does not pry your fingers open. Love never does. God waits for the smallest opening— a crack of willingness, a softening of resistance, a sigh that says, Here. This is all I have. Feel the weight leave your hand— the fear you’ve been gripping, the outcome you’ve been controlling, the story you’ve been telling yourself about how this must turn out. Let your hand stay open. Imagine God placing into it exactly what you need; not necessarily answers, not certainty, but presence. Strength that does not shout. Peace that does not explain itself. A quiet assurance that you are not alone in this moment. Now imagine God’s hand beneath yours - steady, strong, trustworthy - holding you rather than being held by you. You do not have to climb. You do not have to reach higher. You do not have to prove your faith. You only have to stay open. Rest here for a few breaths. Open-handed. Supported. And when you are ready to return, carry this posture with you ... not just in prayer, but in life. Because an open hand is how God reaches you.