You Are Seen

Does he who implanted the ear not hear? Does he who formed the eye not see? For the Lord is the great God [...] In his hands are the depths of the earth, and the mountain peaks belong to him. The sea is his, for he made it and his hands formed the dry land. Come, let us bow down in worship before the Lord our Maker; for he is our God and we are the people of his pasture, the flock under his care. Psalm 94:9; 95:3-7

The One who holds the mountain peaks of life also holds the deepest, darkest valleys. The sea which often threatens to overwhelm me with its violent waves? It's his. The desert in which I find myself scorched and longing for refreshment? It's also his. I wrestle and I rest. 

Just as he hears the jubilant rejoicing and sees the joyful countenance of the mountain peaks, he also hears the wounded cries and sees the costly tears shed in the valley. He is near to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18). He does not abandon us in the form of his presence or his care in the valleys. 

Dear mama, I cling to this as we live in a world where a Bereaved Mother's Day (there's one for dads too) exists. Up until a year ago I never knew today's designation existed. I cannot say it changes my sorrow one way or the other, but I also cannot say I wish I never knew today's designation existed. Why? Because it would mean I continued in my naive marginalization of some of the most broken hearts forced to live in a world without the one(s) they carried in their womb, held in their arms, one(s) who called them "mommy", one(s) whose precious voice they will never hear utter another "I love you, mommy" this side of heaven. 

If you know me, you know I have an intense dislike for the word bereaved and the deficiency our language offers us. If messages and notifications regarding a National Bereaved Mother's Day do not inundate your social media feeds on days like today, consider yourself fortunate indeed. Yet, even so, I know burying a child is not the only form of sorrow in our broken world. Admittedly, it is indeed the most intense I have experienced and makes all others I have or can imagine seem less threatening. There are varying depths and dark valleys. There are varying waves to wash over mankind in the tumultuous seas; varying heats one is exposed to in the desert. 

Wherever the path we limp traverses He is a tender shepherd. We can honestly wrestle and rest in his sovereignty. We can cling to his promises in our dark valleys without having all our questions answered. I can worship from the pit of the darkest valley, and he will hear. He will see. My worship may not sound like that of those on the mountain or riding the calm seas. It may carry a mournful tune, be sung in a minor key, and have an unnatural rhythm, but it comes. Instead of neatly bowing down we may have had our knees swept out from under us and ungracefully find our faces streaked with mud and tears, but none of this changes who he is. He is still my (and my daughter's) Maker. He is still my God. He is still my Shepherd. I am still his. I may wrestle with much, but I rest in this.