I looked at the clock and the time was 1 or a little after 2 oclock and the time seemed to stop.
A dear family lost a little one this year and I was forced to look at a day that my mind never goes to, on purpose. The muck and the mire of grief is a horrible place to live. This Christmas, I am grateful for the many hands that pull and guide me out of the places of the mire that beset me. Each time I step into the bogs of grief and sorrow, the Holy Spirit raises a standard against it, but it is not without a fight.
I kept asking God, why He would keep me alive when my purpose was gone. There seemed no reason for clocks or time to go on.
I had negotiated with God on every turn of this pregnancy. I sacrificed and offered the best of what I had, to beg God for a son. Everyday, I walked to work and prayed that God would see my offering and give me the desire of my heart. Elated, was the moment and better than any Christmas present when the midwife said it was a boy. Our family was complete. There was nothing else to do, but rear them in the fear of God...Until that day.
My husband was the first to battle on behalf of my soul. The shroud had covered my soul's eyes. What do we do now? We had prayed all Easter day. Is there a God? I know that there is. He said no. What do we do? My husband said this is what we do...We get on our knees and thank God for each of the 21 days that we had him. I bowed in obeisance to God and obedience to my husband. I was truly grateful for the most beautiful and delightful days of my life. A season when all my prayers had come to pass and a season where I felt that God had heard my every wish. Now it was dashed. Now it was over. Death had come between me and the most treasured answer from my Lord.
Little glimpses of comfort came from hyacinths and sunrises. I found small delights in songs and other things, but for the most part I was crippled in grief. I couldn't reconcile the goodness of God and the hardness of the sense of my baby's face against mine and having to tuck his little body into the cold, hard earth. I had learned from my Bishop that the sacrifice of praise was always in order. I knew that God is always worthy to be praised. So, as deep as the grief was, I praised Him as hard as I felt. I writhed in worship and I learned that the Christianity that my forefather's learned in the crucible of slavery had balms for the griefs of life that were truly useful.
I learned of the comfort of family. I will never forget the sense of Aunt Ra Ra's voice wafting through the fog of pain. I remember the hands of my sisters guiding me to the shower and helping me see the way to the doors. I felt numb and useless. Then the song of the redeemed, strengthened my knees, in church and I felt like I could move again. God's comforts were many and vast, but the darkness of grief was deep. I remember the visceral anger of jealousy that heated in my breast, whenever I would see other's who were allowed to keep their children. I remember a special season of anxiety at the reality of the judgement of God on sin and my dear Abby, who is now gone called right at that moment. We are still on earth, his voice seemed to remind me. God was so merciful not to strike me, in those wicked thoughts. What do we do, when those horrors arise? Thank God for the 21 days. Those days were engrained into my memory, but when I awoke the emptiness of my maternal arms was still there.
The sun shone into my soul when "The Preacher's Wife" came out. I could see God was good. I had jumped in my soul, through some of the fog and now I could see that the things that felt unbearably painful, were the wrapping cloths for my heart, keeping it together. From the question of Grandma Ruth abruptly asking "Where's your faith, Jayne?" to the sweet readings of Spurgeon into my soul by my dearest Sharon. God was in it.
Help was on the way!
No comments:
Post a Comment