"Bless You"

 Tears. 

Sometimes they're waiting like a pregnant cloud: ready to pour forth but held back for now. 

Sometimes they come like a soft shower. 

Sometimes they come slow, steady, and soaking. 

Sometimes they come like a torrential downpour stinging upon contact and creating flash floods of sorrow. 

Sunday was a downpour for me. It's not abnormal for me to cry in worship. I'm ok with that. But this past Sunday went beyond that. I was breathless, unable to sit up while sobbing with my head between my knees. I could not dam the tears no matter how I tried. My shoulders shook with sobs as my sweet seven year old daughter hugged and rubbed my back. There was a role reversal for a time, and I'm still unsure how I feel about that. 

It's no secret music has been a means of comfort, distraction, redirection, and reminder of Truth for me these past three months. Although, there is one song I have intentionally avoided. I can't think about it. I can't sing it. I can't listen to it. Not because it's bad, but because it is so very, very painful. For three years I sang "The Blessing" over my baby girl while putting her to bed. It was so routine my older three children would often ask to join and sing it with me as I rocked her. When we moved Abigail into her "big girl" bed our routine continued. I would lay beside her while she either snuggled into the crook of my arm or threw herself across my chest so my nose nestled in her hair. When asked what song she wanted she'd say, "Bless You," and I would sing "The Blessing" to her as she fell asleep. I cry just typing this. 

In the approximate three years since moving here and joining our church I cannot remember one time we've ever sang that song together- at least when I was present. (Albeit I have bore four children and buried one. Pieces of my mind seem completely gone.) So, I thought I was "safe," dropped my guard, and never prepared myself for a surprise encounter. Our precious music pastor rarely asks us to sit while we sing, but Sunday he did. The Lord knew my legs wouldn't hold me anyway. I tried to keep my composure as the song started, but it was impossible. I've never been more thankful to sit next to the instrumental section, as they muffled my sobs. Exactly three months (twelve weeks) to the day we "lost" our Abigail was one of the most gut wrenching times of worship I've ever experienced as "The Blessing" rang through the sanctuary.  

The only thoughts in my mind were the feel of her in my arms at bedtime; the smell of her hair as it tickled my nose; her little voice singing the "amen" chorus with me; the preciousness of holding my child at bedtime which I now realize I took for granted so many nights. How all my senses ached for her in that moment! 

I'll be honest with you. I don't like being messy in front of people. Too late for that. I was a messy shoulder shaking heap of humanity doubled over on that pew. For the entirety of that service I wanted nothing more than to run out of that sanctuary. But why? There I was surrounded by people who had been (still are) praying for us for twelve straight weeks, people who've cried for us, served us, loved on us. If not there, where?