Song of My Heart's Devotion

sometimes it takes a funeral

Sometimes it takes a tragedy to make us wake up and serve others who ache with hurt and grief, as fellow believers filled with grace and compassion.

Sometimes it takes a suicide to make us regret our insistence on pretending everyone is fine and mental health is not an issue for "real" believers.

Sometimes it takes the loss of a precious little one to make us treasure the teachable moments as we wipe runny noses and sing the favorite song again.

Sometimes it takes an overdose to make us realize that the prince of darkness stalks our quiet little town just like he roams any big city, seeking whom he may devour.

Sometimes it takes a fight to help us find the gratitude to truly appreciate what a steady, faithful partner we have in our spouse or the relationship with our grown child.

Sometimes it takes a funeral to make us realize we didn't even know this sister or brother in Christ that we smiled and greeted pleasantly for years.

I don't want it to take a funeral or a tragedy to make me learn to be the feet and hands of Christ, but those deeply sorrowful moments, inevitable in life on this earth, are tools God uses to grab our attention and refocus our scatterbrains on souls headed for an eternity in one of two places.

How little anything else matters beside that fact!

And every single bit of sorrow in the world comes paired with a choice, to choose love and hope and faith over despair and depression and hopelessness.

"I call heaven and earth to witness against you today, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing. Therefore choose life, that you and your offspring may live, loving the LORD your God, obeying His voice and holding fast to Him, for He is your life and length of days..."  Deut. 3:19-20

Gracious God our Father, Blessed Controller of all things, we ask that You would help us greet earthly sorrows with renewing of faith.The wickedness and grief of the world takes our breath away and our eyes off You. Yet every instance of tragedy is a chance to choose life and good or death and evil. Give us the courage to choose aright. Help us to learn the lesson in small ways, on small days, so that when the great and terrible trials come, we are strong people already strengthened for the fight. On sure footing let us greet the blows and billows. On Christ the solid Rock we stand. Amen.

His eye is on the roses

The roses could have been any color. I could just have easily bought white ones, or yellow ones. But they were pink for a reason. I just didn't know it.

I set up for the funerals at our church. It's the perfect way for me to be quietly helpful and avoid the social anxiety that still troubles me intermittently. I take a child with me and sometimes meet a friend and we perform this small act of kindness for the loved ones.

Often, the family is ok with anything we want to put out on the tables for the luncheon, but sometimes there are specific requests. This weekend, family requested old hymns, and wanted the decor to include her beloved Scrabble game. It was a simple matter to frame some favorite songs and arrange them on a cloth with a candle holder and a few words spelled out in tiles.

I hadn't made enough framed hymns, but God provided in a way that made me smile. I found extra frames in a drawer at church, and in the very bottom of the box I'd packed the candle holders in was a stray piece of sheet music. Somehow left there after a past funeral, it was immediately at hand for this one. Natalie and I thanked God for His sense of humor and provision, and got to work.

The tables looked nice. But it needed something to pull it all together, and so I bought the roses.

In with all the autumnal centerpieces in the cooler, the store had lots of red, some peach, a few white and yellow, and one cellophane-wrapped dozen in pink. I'd wanted dark pink, but there weren't any and I didn't have time to stop at another place. Light pink would have to do. I paid and left.

I had no idea pink was exactly perfect. This sweet couple had a thing for pink roses. Every year on their anniversary she'd have a corsage with seven pink roses in it, the number of perfection. There were 100 pink roses on her casket spray. And here I'd placed one on each table, completely unknowing.

This weekend, a family warmed with memories and remembered their mother's, sister's, wife's, grandmother's God cares even about the smallest things. I knew it was a God-thing when the sheet music appeared, but it gave me chills when I found out about the roses. Could God possibly care about such a thing as the color of a grocery store flower?

The answer is yes. He delights in speaking in a quiet but clear voice. He knows we need the reminder that He has surely borne our sorrows and been acquainted with grief. He loves to show us that He is trust-worthy and that He is unceasingly working for our good.

It's easy for me to trust God with the big picture. I easily place the world, our nation, and my children's' futures in His hand. But this weekend I was reminded that God is in the details, the small and simple everyday things. His eye is on the sparrow, and on the roses.

He leadeth me

In pastures green? Not always;

sometimes He Who knows best,

in kindness leads me by weary ways, where heavy shadows be.

Out of the sunshine warm and soft and bright -Out of the sunshine into the darkest night,

I oft would faint with sorrow and affright,

Only for this -I know He holds my hand;

So whether in the green or desert land I trust although I may not understand.

 

And by still waters? No, not always so;

oft-times the heavy tempests round me blow

and o'er my soul the water and billows go.

But when the storm is loudest and I cry

aloud for help, the Master stands by and whispers to my soul, "Lo, it is I."

Above the tempest wild I hear Him say,

"Beyond this darkness lies the perfect day; in every path of thine I lead the way."

 

So whether on the hilltop high and fair

I dwell, or in the sunless valley where shadows lay - what matter? He is there!

So where He leads me, I can safely go,

And in the blest hereafter I shall know

Why, in His wisdom, He hath led me so.

 

"HE LEADETH ME" --John F. Chaplain, author

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fresh grace

Pain is a great clarifier. It has a way of making things very, very simple. Your whole existence becomes a search for ways to end it. Pain brings us to the point of decision. It is the reason we finally go to the doctor, see the surgeon, take the pills.

It eventually gets us to the place where the pain of keeping it locked inside exceeds the pain it will cause if the lock is broken and the truth spills out. Pain is a catalyst that brings about a change in our perspective so that we are finally willing to do something about the cause.

Whether pain manifests itself physically or emotionally, the natural human response is to attempt to end or lessen it to a tolerable level.

A dear friend of mine has reached, as I did last year, the point where life became only a search to end the pain. On the surface it is ridiculous. How can it be that something from so long ago now fells a grown woman? How can it be that this wound brings her to her knees even now, so many years past? How can this emotional pain have translated into physical illness that now obscures the way ahead?

My friend is just embarking on a path along places familiar to many of us. Dealing with sad memories from childhood, and now as an adult, uncovering raw places in her heart and soul that never healed. Uncovering anger towards the adults in her life that failed to protect her, failed to take action to keep her safe, failed to love her more than they loved their own comfort.

Betrayal, thirty years old, and yet the tears are just as hot and fresh as if the pain were brand new. There is a poignant perspective as the now-mother looks back towards the child she was and wishes she could just hold her. A tangible ache in the arms, a longing to wrap that child close and infuse love and assurance into her very skin.

And yet she knows that holding herself will never be enough.

Only God is enough.

As I see it, being in the place of pain brings two reactions out in people. Either they turn away from God, or they turn to Him. Either they trust that He is God Who works all things together for them that love Him, or they don't. Every day I wake up still in pain, still in my distress, I also wake up with a choice. Do I trust Him?

It's a yes or no question. Pain has brought us to the place where there are only two choices. Trust, or distrust.

But while it's a black and white question and answer, it does have to be answered every day. Every. Day. No exceptions. Maybe multiple times per day.

When I open my eyes and groan and think, "oh no, this is not good..." the very next thought in my mind is crucial.

Will it be, "Not AGAIN, God!

Or "I need You again, God!"

As a tender Father, He stands ready with grace for today. Ask and ye shall receive.

But you shall receive it in the portions of His choosing.

Grace only for today.... you must trust that when you ask tomorrow, you shall receive again.

A wise friend recently shared with me the story of manna. You remember manna, the mysterious, precious food that fell from heaven and was there every morning for the hungry Israelites to harvest? Every week day they woke up to just enough food for the day. I was raised on this story in Sunday school. I know it backwards and forwards (but don't ask me for the references; references are my Kryptonite). But today I hear it with new ears.

If the Children of Israel collected more than their share, thinking to save themselves the trouble of collecting it tomorrow, when they went to eat it the next day it was spoiled.The grace was only enough for that morning and evening. God wanted them to collect it every day, fresh from His hand, so they would understand that everything they had was a gift from Yahweh. So that they would have to trust that the manna would appear again to meet their needs for the day, every day.

Once in a while, every sixth day, they were given more than one day's worth of manna. Specifically, for a purpose, they were given two days' worth at once, so that they could rest on the Sabbath as God wisely intended for mankind. But when they greedily accumulated for their own future plans or their own gain, everything went rotten.

I wonder how many times I would have collected extra manna, to see if it would keep THIS time, before I finally got the message.

I have a feeling a rancid whiff of putrefying manna would have wafted around my tent more than once or twice.

I can see that I have been trying to steal tomorrow's grace from the hand of Almighty God. I have built my plans like a Tower of Babel and wrested control of my life away from Him. I have reached into the future and grabbed all the anxiety and worry I can find and dragged it backwards through time with me, to create a burden for today that so big no one person could ever bear it without breaking.

Pain has clarified this for me. It has stopped me in my tracks, pulled me up short, demanded my attention, and laid before me two choices.

Today I made the right choice. Tomorrow the question will be asked again.

And if I have learned the lesson, I will put my hand into a bowl overflowing with fresh manna, instead of rotten, and pull out grace for the day.

And then it's suddenly very clear.

Astoundingly, the pain has been grace, too.

Father God, Great Physician, we ask You to grant us spiritual discernment in our earthly suffering. Cause us to understand the simple choice before us, that God-given trials have made clear, and empower us to choose the right. Today, enabled by grace alone, we choose to give You our grief and our illnesses and trust You to spin that straw into gold, pain into peace. Give us manna for today so that out of faith grows a heart that simply, sweetly trusts there will be fresh grace again tomorrow.

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an embrace that never ends

I am not the first person to fall to her knees in a waiting room.

Sick with dread, awash in anxiety, unable to concentrate.

Incapable even of forming prayer beyond the opening phrase, "O, God..."

O, God! Hear my voice through the rising hysteria and the dreadful fear as Your child gropes for and clings to You as she has been lovingly taught to do. The Love that will not let me go clings back in an embrace that will never end as I sob like the heartbroken little girl that I am. 

O, God, our Help in ages past,

Our Hope for years to come;

Our Shelter from the stormy blast,

and our eternal Home.

Oh, child. God has already seen your future. He has already caught your tears, already pulled you into His arms and let you exhaust your sobs on His shoulder.

Knowing there is not a disaster, a diagnosis or verdict headed your way that will ever surprise Him does not mean we will never feel fear. But if you believe He is Who he says He is, then you must believe that He is omniscient. All-knowing.

Knowing your tears will be dried by the Comforter Himself does not mean they will not fall when we set out on our journey through the valley of grief. But if you believe He is Who He says He is, then you must believe that He is omnipresent. Always-there. 

Knowing that the One Who claims the power to work all things together for good does not mean we will not have to experience doubt that anything can ever, ever possibly make this right. But if you believe He is Who He says He is, then you must believe that He is omnipotent. All-powerful.

That is the One on Whom my salvation rests.

It's clear that I trust Him for that eternal security, but not for the problems of my daily life. Not for that pain from my past. Not for my financial needs. Not for my family's health. Not for... the list goes on. I believe He is strong enough to save, but not strong enough for this particular situation, or that painful subject.

On the floor of that waiting room... in the foyer outside that courtroom... at the side of that fresh grave... all this distrust and with-holding melts away. Instinctively, like a child, we reach for the embrace of the Eternal One.

And we always, always find Him there.

O God! How many times You have showed us Your mercy. How many times You have proven that underneath are the Everlasting Arms, and still Your anxious child asks for more reassurance. Never turned away, never impatiently reproved. Never, not once sent away empty and hopeless, no matter how many times the lesson must be learned. Teach us to trust that You are everything You claimed to be plus more that we cannot even comprehend. For Your glory alone, grant us victorious lives of faith, led close to the foot of the cross.

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precious in His sight

I recently took on a newly created position as Life Ministries event liason at our church. I adore party-planning fun wedding and baby showers and I really enjoy setting up for wedding and anniversary receptions. I'm thrilled to be back in the saddle after a two-year much-needed hiatus caused by a royal case of burnout and physical breakdown.

Someday I'll share that journey with you, because I know I'm not the only one. And my heart hurts for those just beginning that painful period of depression and guilt. For now, just know there IS healing... there IS grace... and there IS mercy... and it is sweet. And if I had to go through that valley to experience it, it was worth it.

Anyway, almost any major life event in our church that needs to be celebrated now passes through my hands to some extent or the other, and I love that. I get to rejoice with them that rejoice (Romans 12:15). I get to hold the warm little squishy package of newborn and press a soft kiss on his head as someone reads verses of wisdom and prays a consecration over his life. I get to ooh and ahh over the unwrapping of wedding presents and giggle over funny-but-true advice to the bride, then bow my head in prayer as we ask God to bless her with a lifetime of joyful service and a marriage that truly pictures Christ's love for His bride.  

I love that. Not gonna lie. I'm all about the parties.

However, part of my duties also include funerals.

I wasn't thrilled when that lot fell to me, I will admit. It's always sad, but even more so if death was unexpected or took someone far too young. It's much quieter service, all behind the scenes. It's sudden, without warning, often at inconvenient times, and the preparations are certainly made without that sense of joyful anticipation.

Pinterest is not involved. I don't blog about the centerpieces. I go in, do my work, and get out.

But I realized this week, during the most recent call, that my heart had changed in the last few months. I actually welcomed the task set before me, and looked forward to having the chance to help.

To be in a position to set everything up so that the luncheons run smoothly, without any inconvenience to the family who should be focused on each other and not the details.

To create a restful area where their needs have been anticipated and they can retreat and regroup after visiting the cemetery.

To create a small and tasteful arrangement for the tables, something with flowers or colors that were special to the loved one and meaningful to those left behind.

To pray for grace and peace as I unfold the linens and smooth the snowy billowing tablecloths down neat and straight, tuck a lighter handy right near the candles, put boxes of tissue around the room.

I welcomed it. I even wished I could have been there to perform those small acts of kindness for other funerals, for friends standing bereft in faraway places, for dear ones in sad times whom I can only serve in a prayer sent through the mail.

What a heart-change.

Death is just as much a part of life as any event to welcome a new baby or celebrate a new marriage, and just as precious in His sight (Psalm 116:15). Just as much an opportunity to serve God by caring for His beloved saints.

Father, thank You for the opportunity to minister comfort to my fellow believers in this small but necessary way.  We pray that You would open our eyes and our hearts to be able to recognize the privilege we have been given to weep with those who weep, as well as rejoice with those who rejoice. Use me to be Your hands, Your feet, this week and next week and every week from now until You come. Comfort those in sorrow, Father of Lights. Cause them to know and to feel that Your loving, everlasting Arms are surrounding them with grace and a peace that passes understanding. You have not left and You will not forsake.