Through Hurt

Through this journey of you and I hurting each other (if I may borrow your words), I have learned that my sins are much greater than I ever knew or imagined.  I have learned that I am far more hurtful than I would like to believe.  I have learned that my brokenness is even uglier than I pictured.  I have learned that even my strengths are oh-so-weak.  I have also learned that God's grace is boundless, His love is limitless, and my need for that grace and love places me right at the centre of it over and over again.  I have learned about forgiveness and the complexity of relationships.  I am learning to shift my focus and lift my eyes above me and above you.

I pray that we will both find the source of our worth in the One who made us and not in anyone else - be it for good or for bad.  

There is the rowdy chaos of nine little boys as a backdrop to every bite and conversation.  This doesn't help my ability to slow my heart rate and be joyful.  But even still, in my heart of hearts, I know it is not as superficial as that.

I am sad that things have changed in so many directions and I find myself not fitting in.  An invisible stranger in my own family.  The couch feels like it is swallowing me as the conversation pushes me down farther and farther.

On one side there is she whom I cannot talk to because the pain and risk of pain is too great.  On another there is she whom I love but desperately don't want to put more in the middle than she already is.  Across the room there is another, who I really hardly know and when I want to start a conversation I am always talked over.  And there is one more, who sometimes seems to be everywhere, and I just can't be quite selfless enough to be interested in the advance of car technology and the population of Mars.

And there I am.  Alone and silent.  A far cry from what it used to be.  Have I changed or have they?  How do I not fit in to this family that shares my blood, my sense of humour,  and my memories?

Hope

Her picture hangs in my kitchen and I look at it several times a day.  Amidst the meal-making, the zipper-zipping, the remnant-sweeping, and the backpack-assembling, there she is.  Just below the lists, schedules, and reminders, there she is.

And even though I never knew her, I can't take it down.  Because a parent should not have to bury their baby.  Nobody would argue, we all know that grief is just too much.  Our hearts break and our anger rages against this injustice.  And yet all around, there is sorrow, tragedy, unimaginable pain.  Over and over the unthinkable explodes in unsuspecting homes.

So next to the ordinariness of grocery lists, to-do lists, and babysitter lists, is this little girl.  The butterfly that dances care-free across her funeral card belies the magnitude of the message.  There is only one certainty.  Only One.  He guarantees nothing in terms of my circumstances, but everything in terms of His loving grace.

I will not live in fear, but I strive to walk in conscious adoration of who He is and thankfulness for what He has done.  For the depth of His love and its rightful place as my All, my Only, my Strength, my Source.  In Him I live and move and have my being.  And, when all else fails, in Him is hope.

My misty eyes flit back past the butterfly to her name.  In the centre, where it belongs, Hope stands defiant of circumstance.  And I am humbled.

You know (Psalm 139:1)

You have searched me and you know me, O Lord.
You know my exhaustion and my exasperation.
You know my tired eyes and tired sighs.
You know my doubts and dread, my full and weary head.
You know my facade and you know where it is flawed.
You know that I bellow, holler, and yell.
You know that I don't want to build another fort
and you know that my fuse is oh-so-short.
You know my wit's end and the time I spend in this hell-ish trend.
You know what is only mine to know.
But you know.

And oh, how you love me so.

Lord, when I am so helpless and weak, sing Your song of delight over my soul so that I too could know.  That I could know the depths of Your unconditional love in the depths of my desperate soul.  That the glorious riches of Your greater grace could be the melody of Your song that is with me when I awake.

Ephesians 1

It's so much easier to believe that His grace was given at the cross, to save me to Himself once and for all time.  It's so much messier to believe that His grace is lavished upon me time and time again, in the abundant forgiveness you pour out over each individual falling-short.

Your Song (Psalm 42:8)

I heard it in the heaviness of the fog that sat above me, eyes unable to see You but soul clinging to hope for new chances, fresh starts, and forgiveness from the one who bears larger than his fair share of my wrath.

I heard it in the three-part harmony of giggles and melody, gleefully singing back songs of Your goodness, my soul rejoicing in their praise even as it recognizes Your heart for them is bigger even than my own.

I heard it in spritz of juice and festive scent of mandarins filling the room and settling gently above the chatter of women who trust, who share, who grow, who uphold.

I heard it as the orchestra accompanied my expanding view of the room where we all live together.  Smoothly layering its chaos and order, glory and grace into a masterpiece of family that is as riveting and revolutionary as it is real and regular.

Consider (1 Timothy 1:12)

When I stop to consider that He considers me, suddenly it's the only thing worth considering.  At least until something falls or someone calls.  Yet even then my heart rejoices amidst the broken pieces, because He considers me.