Journey 29: It's Arrived

As I crafted James' story, as I attempted to put words to all we had endured, as I relived and recalled the agony and the joys of living with James through all he had to go through, what God had called him to do, I desired above all else that the book would minister to hurting hearts, would remind others that God is sufficient, regardless. As I edited, proofread, re-wrote and remembered, I longed for people to know James, to understand his story, to be inspired by his triumphant life. I desired that the Lord, who Himself had carried us in His arms through every moment, would take this little book about this little boy and do big things, God-breathed things.
Now, the book is available and I finally have the privilege to share it with others. And I have been absolutely surprised. The early comments tell me that God is already using James' story to tenderly touch and powerfully impact the lives of readers everywhere. I am amazed. I keep bringing the book and placing it in the Lord's hands just like the little boy once did with his meager lunch. I know He will bless it and I pray He would use it continually to feed the hurting hearts of many.

Journey 28: A Resemblance of Sorts

Far too often I resemble the disciples on the road to Emmaus.
Downcast and in despair I trudge along, walking away from my own confusing Jerusalem, where things have not gone quite as I expected. I too misunderstand exactly what God is allowing in the fog that surrounds my circumstances. Like those two favored ones who walked with the Lord but knew not who he was, though his breath warmed their faces as he strolled by their side, I too fail to grasp that he journeys beside me, waiting to reveal himself in his perfect time.
Why he chose to travel with those two who did not identify Him comforts me when I too cannot sense His presence. Into the muddle he steps, to clear away the chaos, to disclose truth, if I would just let him break bread and feed me where I am.
What is it that keeps me from recognizing him now? My face is downcast like theirs, and I stand still in my tracks like that pair of ancient followers and ask my Lord incredulously, “Do you not know the things that have happened in these days?” (Luke 24:18). Lord, have you been absent from your post that you would allow this dreadful situation to overcome me? Master, do you not know precisely what has happened to me in these days, in my Jerusalem?”
I am quick to reprimand him, swift to try and fill him in on my woes, just like them. As if he did not fully comprehend exactly what had just taken place on the cross and in the tomb. They were informing him of his own experience, instructing him in what he knew by heart. Ignorantly, they believed him to be uninformed and out of touch. Do I not treat him with the same disdain when I attempt to inform him of my complex scenario, believing foolishly that he does not already know every precise detail that has enfolded me?
He rebuked them, and rightfully rebukes me too. “How foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe…”(Luke 24:25). How foolish I am to think for a moment that the Creator of the Universe is powerless to work in the middle of my void. How slow I am to believe all those promises he has made, all those reminders of his unconditional love that are written in black and white on sacred pages no king or tyrannical ruler has ever been able to wipe out.
“Did not the Christ have to suffer these things and then enter his glory?” He reprimands and reminds those two who are struggling towards Emmaus. Do I not have to suffer these things that he has allowed as well? Is my suffering not also for his glory? Can I not trust the one who knows exactly what suffering is all about, who refers to himself as “a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering”. Can I call myself a follower of Christ if I am unwilling to bear some sorrow as well?
Like those disciples on that dusty road I would say now, “Stay with me.” Do not leave me just yet. Reveal more of yourself while I listen for your voice. Open the Scriptures to me and let my heart burn like those two comrades of old. Break open the Bread of Life and feed me so my eyes will be opened to recognize that you are in my midst, on the dusty road, in the middle of the journey, on my way home.

Journey 27: Come Again

Once I took her companionship for granted. Interspersed throughout my days I drank deeply from her cup as she offered satisfying gulps of life, laughter and love all swirled together in an exuberant mixture of delight. I rarely gave her a nod of approval, always expecting her presence, naïve woman that I was, hardly knowing that joy can be robbed and held for ransom despite all my desperate cries for her return.
She flew through the doorway as death sauntered in and cruelly snatched my darling child away. I knew no more the sweetness of her friendship, for sorrow moved in, unpacked her bags and made comments that she had come to stay and thank you very much but joy could no longer abide under the same roof alongside her. Joy hoisted her skirt and fled, this gentle, exuberant member of my household. She withdrew and left me struggling to breathe in grief’s gigantic embrace; the door banged shut, and I shuddered, numbness like ice freezing over the marrow in my bones took control. Darkness drew the curtains and heavy bolts blocked the entranceway.
On occasion, when I strained against the clamor all around me, when I forced myself to listen for her voice, I could recall distinctly that she had effortlessly blown confusion away, filling every corner with magnificent splendor. Where was she now? Would I never know the soothing comfort of her arms linked through mine again?
Timidly, she knocked once, but bolted away before I could even pry the lock open. Sometimes I caught a brief glimpse of her as she scampered past, but I suppose she hardly recognized me, my face shrouded with sorrow’s blackened veil. Though I strained at the window pane for another glimpse, hungry eyes peering into the places where I had always seen her beauty, she eluded me and time wandered by.
Gradually, when I least expected her return, she quietly tiptoed up the pathway, wearing a simple frock of muslin embroidered with pale, miniature flowers. Fastened to her bosom was a delicate, translucent brooch fashioned from a tear-shaped gem. Sorrow glanced at Joy’s appearance and recognized she must begin to pack up her belongings. The process was slow, hauntingly slow. Joy waited patiently, neither prodding nor pleading for her departure.
When days and weeks slipped past six seasons, I finally begged Joy to reenter and replace sorrow’s worn-out presence. Joy came wrapped in simplicity with a gentle smile on her face, her eyes peeling back the dreary light. Timidly, she unfastened the darkened drapes and with the sunshine creeping in she courageously unlocked the shutters and let the clear air filter through the house again.
I recognized her presence as I gathered with three friends to read stories poured out from our hearts’ pens and laugh at our simple attempts to display what our souls knew so well. I saw her form as I raced about my duties, no longer feeling the cumbersome weight of sorrow’s wretched cloak. I heard her laughter in the voices of my children and saw her passion on the face of my spouse. I felt her presence as I made ready for our son’s wedding, baking and painting and organizing, never once sensing this new load as burdensome. I knew her companionship as I tucked myself on the couch and opened the Scriptures and saw fresh, new pictures of my Father’s grace. I serenaded her as I walked in the early morning light and lifted my voice to praise my Creator who does all things well and everything in his time.
I held out my hand and she returned my grasp as I remembered the days gone by and looked ahead to the brilliant sparkle of light in the distance. Oh Joy, travel with me still. Leave not my side. Though sorrow will yet press her face to mine, let hers be a fleeting touch and yours a permanent stride.

Journey 26: Strange Giver

What gifts did sorrow bring me, mounted high within her piercing arms? What are the packages I shuddered to accept that now lay heaped beside me while she lingers close, refusing to yield her grip on me? I wanted none of them. I crossed my arms across my chest and denied their welcome, but she would not relent. Savage friend. She drew near to bless dressed in the blackest form and while her lips bore a mournful frown she pressed them to my cheek. I loathed the smell upon her breath and cringed from her yellowed teeth. But she stood resolute, and would not fade away or know retreat until I accepted each gift she bore. The weight within each box brought agony but she forced me to hold it to my breast and cradle what I found, though darkness obscured the contents of each one.
In the dingy grayish hues I strained to recognize each present as grief curled herself around my chest. I waited for light to crack the shadows open wide. With unaccustomed eyes, as time slipped through seasons, days moved and rearranged and fell and drifted by, I slowly realized that she had brought me the ability to see another’s pain. Through the window of my broken heart I now quickly identified the wretched state of others in my path. Indifference could no longer impede my sight for I now sensed distinctly those who drew near me with shattered dreams or splintered lives. I understood their weak defense and grasped their silent ache in the torrent that spilled from their wounded eyes. And with this understanding came the ability to still my lips from pouring out advise on how to fix the loss, and I turned instead to listening and holding out my trembling hand to steady them rather than provide a remedy to soothe temporarily. Many had brought me comfort with their silence and I returned the favor when compassion was asked of me.
As the colors shifted, as dim flickers of light merged and sunlight timidly poked its head inside, I heard an unfamiliar, haunting tune floating out of another bundle pain had brought. The cadence grew, and from within the strains filled the air in volume loud and unrestrained, powerful and strong, magnificent in depth and pitch and frame, and I heard anew the passion sorrow had bestowed on me.
From the very place that made me cringe, from the rawest agony within, came the deepening of love between my husband and me. We, who had been torn asunder by the gravest loss, were bonded in an unbreakable hold as we clung desperately to each other for support. The grief, that if God’s hand had not stayed would have destroyed us with its brutality, he used to cement us tightly together and to forge a love stronger, richer, sweeter than before.
This love spills out upon our children too. Together we value them as one who has traveled through a desert cherishes an ordinary cup of water as an exquisite, refreshing goblet. Sorrow bestows the high treasure of gratitude and appreciation and declares with a resounding voice that nothing, not the smallest act or simplest moment, should be taken for granted. As she squeezed life from us, this unlikely messenger brought life to us in subdued tones that grow more brilliant with each day’s passing.
Sorrow stands before me still. Her intense presence fades with the passing of days, her suffocating embrace loosens and she remains a vague, unsettling reminder that she has clutched me with her hand and will forever reside nearby. She colors every portion of my world and scents the fragrance of each day. I am learning lessons from this most complex companion and perhaps the greatest one lies in the call to worship that she extracts with her presence. I realize I can choose to quiver, whimper and withdraw when I feel her intense pressure in my core, or I can use her cry as a prompt to worship the God who does all things well. She can hold me captive with her dreariness or I can turn from her and turn towards the Master of my soul.
Worship does not require that I feel good. Worship does not need me to understand the place I presently stand. Worship does not declare that I must rejoice in the situation I find myself. I am learning to worship right in the middle of the pain, exactly where I am, regardless of how I feel or what thoughts flood my mind, or what memories quench my spirit. Grief brings me the greatest gift of all if she draws my heart to worship my Creator and he in turn draws me to himself in an intimate embrace. I am learning through worship that God does not have to provide the answer to my dilemma. In grief’s company I learn that he himself is the answer. I need nothing more than him. Can I explain this most precious gift of grief? Are there words to defend grief as a friend? I think not. The One who calls himself “a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief,” has given me himself and walks me through territory he is long familiar with.