For whatever the reason, you remember the date. Like sharpie on your soul it becomes a marker . . . a measuring point . . . and a makeshift altar.
I'm pausing at this Ebenezer for reflection . . . sticks and stones . . . brokenness . . . a breaking away, a laying down, and a miraculous building back up.
Redemption is a journey and healing is a process.
This is what I wrote to a friend when she asked how I was [really] doing about halfway through this revolution:
There is just a rising river of grief with a swift and unpredictable current that I simply must cross.
No one is chasing me, there is rest on the other side, but for now I just can't relax ... I.must.keep.walking.
My hands are high, holding important things above the stream of ruin. My core is flexed, and my feet are cold (realities of faith and issues of trust).
But I am not alone, and this temporary challenge has a purpose: my ultimate good and God's eternal glory.
This is the song that ushered me across:
"Sometimes sorrow is the door to peace
Sometimes heartache is the gift I need
You're faithful, faithful
In all things
You're still my rock, my hope remains
I'll rest in the arms of Jesus
Come what may"
This morning, "Goodness of God" served as my usual confession on my solitary commute. I pushed play in the silence.
Just as Cece and I began to sing (man, I'm telling you, we are pretty fantastic together - she has literally no idea) , I thought of the day and the year and all I could do was marvel at how far we've come - my Savior and I.
At the chorus my voice cracked, and out rushed an emotional mix of warm tears and fresh faith, and I could barely get the words all the way out . . . but I sang them believing, broken and bold.
"All my life You have been faithful. All my life You have been so, so good."
