Yesterday afternoon, I felt like screaming. I’m not 100% sure why. I have at least an inkling that it has to do with grief, but my mood was pretty decent at the time. Or maybe the good mood was a thin mask and my true emotions were fighting to come out. But yeah, some of those psalms about wailing … my heart, my soul. Deep inside, I can feel it trying to come out. I can feel the tears wanting to flow. All this would happen if I let it. If I let it. No, I’m not bottling it in. Trust me, there. The hole in my chest that appeared when Keith died varies in size from day to day and, sometimes, moment to moment. Some days it’s a huge gaping hole. Some days it’s a pin-hole. Most days it’s somewhere in between.
I’m not sure why, but when I open my Bible App, it’s at Psalm 6. Most of it is very appropriate. Verses 2-7a. I don’t believe God’s angry at me, as in verse 1. I also don’t believe enemies are out to get me, as in verses 7b-10. I wish I could feel the confidence of verse 9, though. “The Lord has heard my plea; the Lord will answer my prayer.” He didn’t hear my plea or answer my prayer the night I asked Him to please not take my baby. A dear friend who shall remain nameless herein would argue that, yes, He did hear my plea and, yes, He did answer my prayer. He just didn’t answer it the way I wanted Him to. AND He didn’t take my baby.
1 O Lord, don’t rebuke me in your anger
or discipline me in your rage.
2 Have compassion on me, Lord, for I am weak.
Heal me, Lord, for my bones are in agony.
3 I am sick at heart.
How long, O Lord, until you restore me?
4 Return, O Lord, and rescue me.
Save me because of your unfailing love.
5 For the dead do not remember you.
Who can praise you from the grave?
6 I am worn out from sobbing.
All night I flood my bed with weeping,
drenching it with my tears.
7 My vision is blurred by grief;
my eyes are worn out because of all my enemies.
8 Go away, all you who do evil,
for the Lord has heard my weeping.
9 The Lord has heard my plea;
the Lord will answer my prayer.
10 May all my enemies be disgraced and terrified.
May they suddenly turn back in shame.
I just finished “Choosing to SEE.” It’s Mary Beth Chapman’s account of what happened to them in 2008 (their 6 yr old daughter, Maria, was hit by a vehicle being driven by her 16-17 yr old brother). I’m also going through my second reading of John Claypool’s “Tracks of a Fellow Struggler”. His 8-9 yr old daughter was diagnosed with leukemia and died a little over a year later. Published in 1974, the book is made up of 4 sermons – after diagnosis, after first major relapse, after her death, and then a few years after she had died. I read both of these accounts and think, “Wow. I cannot imagine going through that!” Yes, my baby died. We have that in common, but I didn’t have to watch him die. I thank God for that, at least. I find it interesting that I hear others’ stories of loss and think, “I can’t imagine going through that,” but, in a way, I am going through that. It sucks.
Last night, I posted a YouTube link on my Facebook profile of a live performance of Steven Curtis Chapman’s “Beauty Will Rise”. It’s a beautiful song and some days I feel the hope it inspires. He’s an amazing artist, though. The opening notes – chords, rhythm, instrumentation – they’re all an incredibly accurate depiction of the feelings that are felt in that moment of panic. It was the day the world went wrong. And yet, “out of these ashes, beauty will rise and we will dance among the ruins, we will see Him with our own eyes… for we know, joy is coming in the morning.”
I’m closing with the YouTube of the song that came on while I was typing the first bit of this post.