Sit here. In quiet
uncertainty, just be
present. Hold
me with your tears. Know my
pain when you don’t have to.
Listen. I’m not alone.
Your heartbeat, your inhale and
exhale, remind me that I can bear
this weight of losing. Sit here.
It’s enough.
But let me tell you something wonderful, a mystery I’ll probably never fully understand. We’re not all going to die—but we are all going to be changed. (1 Corinthians 15:51 The MSG, Biblegateway)
My son’s birthday and Mother’s Day are irrevocably intertwined. He is my firstborn. The one who taught me both the joys and sorrows of motherhood. I am very intentional about May. I don’t want to forget that as much as eight birthdays without Jonathan hurts, the joy of living these almost nine years with Christ shows me hope is not diminished by the grave.
Your birthday and motherhood are intertwined
like a wild rose around my heart.
The barrier of death pricks to marrow. Yet, the
sweet fragrance of Hope, salve to my sorrow,
grows tangible beyond the thorns of your grave.
Think of a moment when something you hoped for became a reality. Did you know for sure that it would happen?
Hope is tangible, and the more we grow to know the character of God and his son, the stronger and sweeter the fragrance of hope. In Christ, hope is never fickle, no matter how many thorns we experience to the contrary.
Lord, I don’t always see the roses growing among the thorns of my circumstances. Teach me to recognize your ways so that I can see beyond this temporary life. Amen
Before the swell of gospel melody,
The steady scales of scripture
Are plunked out in daily practice.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Before the crowd of miracles,
Prayer plods through lonely deserts
noting life’s measure.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Before the timing of pharisaic dissidence,
Lessons in theory reveal the authentic
character of the world’s composer.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Before the crescendo of resurrection,
there is a garden path of surrender
where I watch the winding procession of betrayal.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Before the harmony of fireside discipleship,
I close my eyes and listen to the master play.
Tuning my heart to the rhythm of the cross.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Pressed between the simplicity of your call, “Come follow me,”
and the complex crush of my daily cross,
I am humbled to my knees.
Here, shaped by the gospel of Your foot
washing love
I can gently, patiently, fish for men.
I cradled hope like a fragile fledgling.
It shivered—tender
warmth against the concrete cold of
my anguish.
Hope is a wild, open-palmed expectation. Because
You are good, it will fly.
Arms outstretched in worship
to a song my soul sings.
On tiptoes, I expect to touch heaven.
And you bring heaven to dance with me. You
strum restless leaves and kiss my head
with the sunshine spotlight of your love.
Sing to me your delight as I move to the rhythm of
your salvation. Fear no longer hinders. I spin
and step out on the dancefloor of creation to glorify you.
You didn’t hold Christmas back from my troubles.
You slipped into my dirty world on a crowded
night of cares, with a star and angels as a birth
announcement.
Chubby fingers curled around my broken
heart before I knew I needed you. The earthy
the fragrance of shepherds, a stable, a carpenter,
and a young girl seems an unexpected
entrance for a king.
You lifted my tear-stained cheeks to
take in the wonder of Your presence.
My soul, crushed by a million fears,
found joy and peace in a tiny dependent baby—
God dependent upon a woman, the words
twist in my mouth as sacrilege. Yet you
upended my every flesh-tainted notion
of your holiness.
God with me, so that
I know that I know my sorrow
is not in vain.
A tangible God, for a flesh and bones sinner,
nestled in strips of cloth. I can hardly take
the majesty of your complete love.
Joy widens the eye dimmed by sorrow,
and reveals hope within the grain of a planed life.
Patiently packaged within pain
is the gift of possibility.
Unopened or opened—content remains the same.
My future is secure in the gift-giver.
Oh Lord, help me tear away the wrapping of fear, bitterness, and despair
and gasp in awe at your glory.
My passion—tangible hope secreted within the gift of suffering.
Lift up your eyes on high and see: who created these? He who brings out their host by number, calling them all by name; by the greatness of his might and because he is strong in power, not one is missing. (ESV).
I couldn’t sleep last night, so at 2 am, I gave up. Having a lot of work to do today, I ran out to get my computer charger from the car but didn’t make it past my front steps. The sky greeted me with brilliant constellations. Suddenly the weariness washed away, and I was wide awake with the pleasure of God’s company. I put my arms out in worship. Thank you, Lord, for the stars that remind me you are near.
You won’t always be able to sleep. Depression, grief, troubles, pain, and an enemy that seeks to crush God-gifted rest can wreak havoc for weeks, months, and even years. But if you remain open to the God of possibility, prayers in the night for others struggling, reading of the Psalms and crying out like David, and noticing God’s goodness in creation are constant refreshments.
Lord, I am weary. I don’t even have words for how much I long for perfect rest. Help me to take hold of your goodness to me and on behalf of others in the night.
If you or a loved one are in immediate danger, call the National Suicide Lifeline at 988 or go to the website at https://988lifeline.org/