For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. –Isaiah 9:6 NIV
There are days when my heart can’t decide which way is up.
One morning, I’m moving at the speed of light—juggling lists, checking tasks off like a machine, answering emails while stirring a pot of soup. And then, without warning, the very next morning, I wake to a thick, unhurried silence that presses against my chest.
Hurry and stillness. Noise and quiet. Confidence and uncertainty. Hope and ache. These contrasts live in me, and sometimes they clash loud enough to make my soul feel fractured.
It was on one of those fractured days, right in the middle of Advent, that the old carol came through my speakers: “What Child is this…?”
The melody rose gently, familiarly. But it was the contrast embedded inside the song that caught me—glory and grit side by side. Angels greet Him with “anthems sweet,” yet He lies in “such mean estate.” Heaven’s King wrapped in plain cloth. Light invading darkness. Strength wearing vulnerability.
I sat down, finally, letting the lyrics wash over the noise inside me. Maybe you’ve been there too—the strange in-between where you’re trying to hold two things at once: joy for what God has done, and a deep ache for what you’re still waiting on. Gratitude and grief. Peace and longing. This year had left me carrying both, and I wasn’t sure what to do with the tension.
But that’s where the hymn met me—right there, in contrast.
The Child in the manger was the embodiment of both majesty and humility. Isaiah said it long before Bethlehem: “A child will be born… and the government will be upon His shoulders.” Mighty God. Everlasting Father. Prince of Peace. And yet—here He is, in a feeding trough, dependent on His teenage mother, unnoticed by most of the world.
The King and the crib. The crown and the straw.
And suddenly I realized—God is not bothered by my contradictions. He is not threatened by the tension in my heart. He has always worked in the holy between. His glory showed up not in a palace but in a stable, not in polished perfection but in the raw, unfiltered realness of human life.
Maybe that’s why the shepherds understood it so quickly. They knew what it was to live in contrasts—long, quiet nights punctuated by sudden danger; hard work and deep loneliness; ordinary routines carrying the possibility of holy interruption. When the angels said, “You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger,” they ran—because they knew the God who meets people where they are, not where they pretend to be.
So maybe the invitation of this hymn—this season—is not to tidy up the tension but to bring it into His presence.
The lyric says, “This, this is Christ the King…”
This—this Child in humility.
This—this Savior who understands.
This—this King who holds every contradiction together.
And there, something in me softened. Not every question answered, not every ache resolved, but a quiet recognition that He is Lord of the contrasts. That I don’t have to choose between hope and honesty. That He can hold my joy and my sorrow, my faith and my doubt, my laughter and my tears. That He is Emmanuel—God with us—right in the middle.
I lit a candle that evening, the room still dark around the edges, and whispered a prayer that rises from the heart of the hymn: “Christ my King, meet me here.” And He did—just as He always does—in grace and glory, woven with straw and starlight.
About the Author:
Beth Ferguson is a wife, mother, grandmother, and retired educator who continues to teach part-time at the university level. At Christ Church Cedar Park, she co-leads a community group with her husband and disciples women through the church’s women’s ministry. She now writes devotional reflections on Substack, exploring what God is teaching her in each season of life. Beth feels called to encourage others, especially women, in discipleship. When she’s not writing, you’ll find her enjoying her grandsons, pursuing her favorite hobbies, or enjoying dinner and good conversation with friends. She lives in Texas with her husband, Ron.
