Just One Before I Die
The Prayer Disguised as a Joke
I have a refrigerator magnet with the Browns’ logo that says, “Just One Before I Die.”
It’s a little prayer dressed up as a joke: Please—just once. Just one moment that makes all this waiting feel worth it.
Steelers fans hope for their seventh Super Bowl. Browns fans—whose stadium has been nicknamed “the factory of sadness”—aren’t asking for a dynasty. We’re asking for one.
And even if you couldn’t care less about the Browns, I’m willing to bet you know what that magnet is really naming.
- Just one before I die.
- Just one day, when the scan comes back clean.
- Just one night you sleep without dread pacing the hallway of your mind.
- Just one relationship that finally softens.
- Just one apology that means what it says.
That’s why I think Simeon and Anna would have made excellent Browns fans.
Wise Waiters in a World That Doesn’t Reward Hope
Luke tells us they were elders whose bodies bore the years. Simeon had been “waiting for the consolation of Israel.” Anna had lived most of her life as a widow, showing up at the temple day after day, fasting and praying—keeping vigil.
And they were waiting in a world that didn’t show much progress.
This was not a cozy Christmas-card scene. It was a world where the empire strangled everything in its grip, where the powerful aggregated more power, and where the faithful wondered if God was a hoax.
Plenty of people quit showing up. Plenty concluded the promise had expired.
And if you’ve ever thought, I’ve tried to do the right thing… I’ve kept the faith… I’ve shown up… and still my life is heavy and the world isn’t getting better—then you’re a kindred spirit to Simeon and Anna.
Here’s what I love about them: they didn’t become naïve optimists. They became wise waiters.
They kept showing up because somewhere deep down they trusted that the Holy doesn’t abandon creation to despair. Not a micromanager God, but a Presence always moving—patiently, tenderly—toward healing.
And then one day, Mary and Joseph entered the temple with a baby. Likely not what they expected. The messiah is not a warrior or a priest with credentials. Just… a peasant baby.
Simeon takes the child in his arms and says, “Now I can depart in peace.”
How did Simeon know?
Luke says the Spirit was upon him. Simeon recognized Jesus not because the baby was impressive, but because Simeon had practiced recognizing God in the ordinary for a long time.
Learning to See God in What the World Dismisses
That might be one of the most necessary spiritual skills we can cultivate: learning to see God in what the world dismisses.
The Holy so often arrives without fanfare.
- Sometimes in the quiet nurse who adjusts the blanket.
- Sometimes in friend who keeps reaching out when you forget to reply.
- Sometimes in the courage it takes to get out of bed when grief has put sandbags on your chest.
If we only look for God in the spectacular, we will constantly miss God.
Rembrandt painted this scene multiple times. The early ones had light beaming on and from Jesus. It was obvious. But later depictions have dark backgrounds and figures.
Simeon’s eyes are closed—while the baby’s eyes are open.
As if Rembrandt is saying: What if the clearest sight isn’t in the eyes, but in the heart?
In a world obsessed with outward stuff, where more people are insecure about their appearance than their character, Simeon and Anna recognize the Holy in an ordinary child born to humble people. And if that’s true—if God can be held like that—then it changes how we look at the everyone as a carrier of God’s image.
The Wide Dream
When Simeon recognizes Jesus, he has his “Simba moment” from The Lion King. He lifts the baby up and declares: “This one is the light… for all people.”
Simeon’s dream is not narrow. It’s wide.
Which makes sense, because when you’re holding a baby, you don’t think small. I remember holding my daughters when they were asleep in my arms, their breathing steady and warm. Your mind leaps ahead. You hope they’ll become honest and kind and brave. When you hold a child, you imagine a world where that child can flourish.
Simeon holds Jesus and imagines a world where light reaches everyone.
Then he says, “Now I can depart in peace.”
Peace, in those moments, isn’t denial. It’s release. It’s the loosening of what has been clenched. It’s the soul saying, I don’t have to carry this alone anymore.
Hazel’s Doll
Let me tell you about Hazel.
Hazel lived a tough life—Depression-era tough. As a little girl, her father scraped together enough money to buy her a beautiful doll for Christmas. She treasured it. Then within days, she broke it.
And somewhere along the way, Hazel learned a story about herself: I break things I’m not worthy of the promise.
She kept that doll in a box her whole life, always intending to fix it “someday.” But “someday” never came.
Decades later, Hazel was ninety-three, riddled with cancer, dying. Her daughters were trying to figure out what to get a ninety-plus-old who might not make it past Christmas. Out of the blue, Hazel said she wanted that doll repaired.
They raced to find it, to find someone who could fix it, and it became this holy little race against time. The doll was finished just a couple of days before Christmas.
Hazel spent Christmas Eve on her deathbed with that doll in her arms.
Not as a toy. As a sign.
A sign that the broken thing could be mended.
A sign that her story wasn’t “I ruin good gifts,” but “I am still held.”
A sign that she was not too broken for love.
And Hazel died trusting the God she had learned about since she was a child—no longer afraid, but at peace.
Like Simeon and Anna holding the baby Jesus, she could let go because she finally received something she had waited for—not a miracle cure, not an easy life—but the restoration of worth.
The Promise
So let’s name the promise clearly.
The promise is not that life will be easy. The Bible is full of people who do the right thing and still suffer, who pray and still ache, who speak truth and still get bruised.
The promise is not that we’ll avoid the breaking.
The promise is that we will not be abandoned in it.
The promise is that there is a Love at the heart of reality—relentless, creative, patient—always moving toward hope, peace, and life. As the letter of John puts it simply: God is love. Not that God has love or gives love, but that Love is what God is.
And sometimes that Love arrives looking ordinary.
A baby. A repaired doll. A hand held in the dark. A community that shows up—imperfect, persistent, real.
You Don’t Have to Wait
Some of you need that today.
You may feel broken in your mind—anxious, racing, stuck.
You may feel broken in your heart—grieving, betrayed, worn thin.
You may feel broken in your spirit—exhausted in a way sleep can’t touch.
Hear this: you don’t have to wait until the end of your life to be held.
In this Christmas season, we are welcomed into God’s arms—today. Not because we earned it. Not because we performed holiness correctly. But because Love is what God is.
So may we be like Simeon and Anna—wise waiters.
May we keep showing up.
May we practice recognizing the Holy in the ordinary.
May we choose the wide dream—light for all people.
And when the time comes—today, or years from now—may we be able to say, not because life was perfect, but because love was real:
“Now… I can depart in peace.”
Create a reminder and hang it on your fridge with a magnet.
Amen.