I often write when emotions and feelings are swirling. Writing is how I process. So while I often write from a place of pain and heartache it doesn't mean joy and peace are nonexistent.
In reality joy and peace are still very much present but grief and sorrow are loud and clamoring for attention. It's sometimes hard to hear the whispers of joy and peace over the painful din of heartache. They've not gone anywhere but I often strain to hear their soothing voices.
Sometimes I literally have to run or walk as though attempting to escape my pain- the loudest voice some days. It chases me. I can't shake it off. I often weep as I walk. My sister-in-law once used the description of unzipping my skin and crawling out. That's what I figuratively imagine as I step out onto the street or sidewalk. Unzip and run. Fast. Sometimes it's probably safer I walk: such as the recent incident when the curb jumped up and bit me right in middle of an intersection on the town square. The only long term damage was to my pride, but I don't really have much of that left anymore at this point.
The other day I needed to move. I tried running, but that was brief. Let's face it. I'm out of shape and my body seemed physically numb and heavy with grief. I grabbed the mail on my way in and collapsed on the couch. I sat there looking at her picture on the mantle, weeping in disbelief that my child was not here. I didn't have any complete sentences for the Lord other than, "God, I am so very sad." Once my eyes were dry enough to read I opened the package. In it was a devotion on grief I had recently ordered. I read the first page and the theme verse was Psalm 139:16. "Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them."
"The days that were formed for me" (other versions state "ordained for me") jumped off the page. This day of sorrow was ordained for me? February 25 was formed or ordained for me? For Abigail? For my family? I chewed on that with silent tears streaming down my face. If I believe God is sovereign -having right and power to rule over all things-(I do); and good (I do); and if when sifting his sovereignty through the lens of his goodness I believe my God is for me and not against me ( I do) then February 25 didn't necessarily happen TO me or TO Abigail. February 25 was ordained FOR me, FOR Abigail.
Whew. I don't know what to do with this. Cry some more I suppose. I do a lot of that these days. All sorts of feelings and thoughts began swirling; some comforting, some confusing. I won't lie. The initial tone of my thoughts even held a hint of sarcasm. I don't even really know why. It's not as though I haven't read this verse hundreds of times.
As soon as my eyes were clear once more (Yep. Crying. Again) I opened a letter. The words within it were kind, compassionate, and encouraging. At the bottom of the page was Psalm 139:16: words the sender "just so happened" to have on her heart for me. I was struck by what appeared to be God's intentionality in getting my attention. In case I wasn't getting the message....round two. Cue more tears.
To be frank I'm still chewing on this and what it means. I realized this idea of the most horrific day of my life and each ensuing day of sorrow being formed FOR me and FOR her meant there was no room for me to play victim. Find me one parent who has lost a child and hasn't at least entertained the idea of pulling out a chair for the uninvited guest named Victim to settle in for a while. I'm not saying it's healthy. I'm saying it's human. No, it's not where I want to make my home, but I'd be lying if it didn't sometimes seem like a fair and decent place to settle myself for a moment (or two). It did give me a new awareness and compassion though for those who seemingly get stuck in that sticky chair. As inviting as it may seem to settle there for a moment, it isn't who I want to be. Entertaining Victim makes me feel like the servant who when entrusted by the master with something of value buried it out of fear. I want to be a diligent steward of this raw and gross grief we’ve been entrusted, but I can't do that if I'm stuck in a chair which doesn't allow me to move forward albeit however slowly and painfully.
A loving father both cautions and chastises. I've been on the receiving end of both of those. In this instance I think it was a calling of my attention to be cautious. “Pass by that chair. Don't sit in that seat. There's more for you, my daughter.”
Before I ever entered this world or became Abigail's mommy...
Before Abigail took her first breath and at the moment she took her last...
He knew me. He saw me.
He knew her. He saw her.
And this day was ordained for me, for her. And I'm to thank Him. That's hard for me to write.
"I praise you because I (and Abigail) am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them." Psalm 139:13-17
How precious to me are your thoughts, O God, indeed. Oh, how I've yearned a window through which I may peek the purpose(s) in allowing these days of sorrow to be written beside our names. I’m not sure I’d be able to comprehend the vastness of such. I don't think I even fully grasp the holiness of it all, and I'm sitting here wondering if that's even the right word.
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