“Of one thing I am perfectly sure. God’s story never ends with ‘ashes.’”
Elizabeth Elliot

The hardest month to bear since James died three years ago begins.
August 17 approaches and I am fearful that its ravenous appetite can swallow me whole. I hear the smacking lips chomping behind me as I scramble and cower. Sorrow is an overweight giant, insatiable mouth wide-open for the kill; I am easy prey.
Undone, I cry for help to my Father who dwells on high, who understands my aching heart, who has already walked me through three years of grief. Escort me on through this dark forest, Lord. Let me not trip on root or tangled vine. Keep me from thorny bush and dim lit caves with their menacing form. You who are Light and Life, who speaks stillness to storms, speak that calm to me. You, who touched the leper’s sores, soothe sorrow’s wounds. You fed five thousand with a small boy’s lunch and shook blindness off an old man’s eyes; distill your miracle in me. Heal me as I brush against the hem of your garment with my battered heart. Refresh me with your Presence so I am overcome with your gentleness and not the sad remembrances of loss.
Remind me again that you do all things well, that you have a purpose beyond my feeble understanding. Sow within my broken chest once more the truth that you are fully capable of using all the splintered pieces for some grand eternal harvest. Right where I am, cognizant of my frailty, you are. Into my weepy thoughts, you come, not to remove the pain, for his death cannot be reversed. But you pour your wondrous self precisely where I am the emptiest. Grief carves crater-sized chasms in my soul. But you are my grief-bearer, sorrow-sharer, soul-binder, heart-healer. Come. Be with me even now.
Limping and spent I wait; He is present. Always has been. Always will.
Then like comforting news from a distant land, an old, familiar friend I have not recalled in months steps over the threshold of my mind. “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future” (Jeremiah 29:11) The hope settles inside like a soothing balm. The phrase lingers, seeps into the deepest corners, curls around and makes itself at home. For this moment I rest, releasing sweaty fears into the palm that will not let go.
On August 2nd, I glance above my desk and see the periwinkle hydrangea plate inscribed with the words, “My grace is sufficient for you.” I have overlooked that Philippians stronghold recently. It is His grace, not my strength, not my self-discipline, fortitude, perky thoughts, or conscious determination that will carry me through this period. His indescribable, unending grace is my first line of defense. All the grace I will ever need for every day of difficult remembering is available.
But each August day marches fiercely toward me, to capture me with melancholy thoughts and emotional weaponry, to bear down its menacing hold. I pray relentlessly. Father, remember I am weak. You know my frame. The memories are too strong for me, too vivid still, too painful. Keep me from being overcome. I do not need people’s kindnesses or tokens to get me through. Human words or touch are not enough for this skirmish. I need you, Lord. I ask for you.
And still, I quiver like a rain-soaked traveler afloat on a raging torrent. The canoe will surely capsize shortly. Ahead, I see the impending waterfall and I am incapable of anchoring in less dangerous water to scramble to safety on shore. The boat is tipping, the current swirling, swishing, roaring, foaming, mouth open wide to immerse me in murky depths.
Through the rushing water the Lord of fair weather and foul throws me his lifeline: worship. Worship soaking wet, adrift, afraid. Yes. I remember learning this lesson before. He handed me this defensive tool when last I passed through this weepy place. Somehow, panic erased what I knew to be true. And I begin again to turn my face toward the Son, to lift my voice in whispered worship, to bring adoration to the One who makes all things new.
The aching remains; the overwhelming despair departs.
August will attempt to pin me in its grasp; The Lord of time and seasons is not threatened by her grip.