I've already walked over some pretty rough terrain in my 25 years of life. This is not a point of boasting but simply a stated fact. I've already experienced loss, several times over. The pain of loss goes deep and therefore, takes time to heal. When you've experienced enough of it, there is this false sense of confidence that is formed within you; confidence that you know what to expect should it happen again. The reality is, nothing could be further from the truth.
I have this funny habit of saving nearly every voicemail someone leaves me. Even appointment reminder messages from my doctor. Weird, right? The appointment reminder messages make me laugh every time, because they are literally 3 minutes long. How come it takes three minutes to remind someone they have an appointment?! Daniel and I always laugh at this.
A while back, after receiving one of those reminders, I saved it so Daniel could hear for himself. When I had logged into my voicemail, Mrs. Automated Voicemail Voice says, "You have no new messages. You have 17 saved voice messages." Daniel heard this and said, "Seventeen?! Babe. You need to clean out your messages!"
I finally did that this morning, so go me! Of course, because I save nearly all messages, there are some from several months ago. As I was sorting through them, I found one from my mom, just a week or two after she was moved into assisted living. Hearing her voice, spoken so clear, nearly broke me.
That is when I realized that "confidence" I thought I had in dealing with loss and the tough things of life has been shattered like a dainty glass vase. I am in no way prepared to deal with the loss of my mother. Though she has not yet departed her physical body, in so many ways I say goodbye to a piece of her each time I visit.
I have so many worries, fears, anxieties in this season of my life. As ridiculously excited as I am about the coming birth of our little one, I am pretty much scared out of my mind about the fact that she has to come out, in one way or another. No joke. If I think about it too long, I go deer-in-a-headlight.
And then I think of my mom, and I'm worried she will never get to hold her first grandchild. I'm worried that if she does live past the birth of Camden, will she be aware enough to know who we are, who Camden is. I worry about saying goodbye to her. How am I supposed to do that? How am I supposed to lay the body of my mother in the earth, knowing I will never see her again this side of eternity? How do I let go?
A few nights ago, God spoke. He spoke to these and all other areas of fear, worry, and anxiety I feel right now.
Romans 11:36 reads, "For from him and through him and to him are all things. To him be glory forever. Amen."
How quickly I forget in the midst of my fickle, overrun emotion that God is HERE! Moreover, every aspect of this time is governed by my sovereign Father.
As I read that verse, God gave me a picture of swimming in a pool. Specifically, the moment of impact as you jump into the deep end of the pool as a child. I can't speak for you, but for me there was a rush of thrilling excitement at jumping off the diving board coupled with fear that the shark I just knew was living in the deep end was on it's way to eat me as I shot through the water. I knew I needed to get to the surface - and fast! Not out of the pool, mind you. Just to the surface.
Anyway.
I thought of those seconds below water, when you are kicking as hard as your legs are able in order to break through. I was not an eye-opener in water, so for me, those seconds were blind. I had a general sense of the direction, yes, but I had no way of knowing how far away I was from the surface. I was a nose-holder, too, so I only had one arm to work with in getting out. In those short few seconds that always felt like much longer, the water completely surrounds. The only thing holding it back from filling your lungs is your tightly pursed lips and the ability to discern not to breath in through your nose. There is no escape from water. It fills every crevice it surrounds, pushing against every inch of you.
The same is true of living in a place of fear and worry. Those emotions surround you completely. It is hard to know where you are headed when every part of you is focused on the depth of those emotions. You can't breathe, or they might fill you even further. You kick as hard as you can, but the strength of the resistance is real. It may take a few moments to break out of that state, but those moments, while you are experiencing them, feel like an eternity.
But what of the exact second you feel your head finally break the surface of the water? You shoot up like a rocket from the power of your kicking legs and finally open your mouth to take in the sweet, fresh air all around you. The expanse is limitless. Just as you were completely surrounded by water below, you are completely surrounded by air above. You can breathe in and breathe out with ease. There is plenty of air to fill your lungs, plenty of life to breathe.
This is life lived in a place of trust in God and belief in His word. For from him and through him and to him are all things. Not some, but all things. This is life lived in knowing He holds everything in His hands and refusing to try to take it into ours in our false sense of control. My false sense of confidence. There is so much room for freedom here! The expanse of His peace is limitless.
It is in this knowledge that I want to walk forward. I don't have to have answers to my many questions. And really, when I think about it, knowing that my Father has all of this in His loving hands makes me realize this: I won't really need answers. He will give me strength as I need, peace as I need, hope as I need. When the time comes to say hello to my daughter, He will carry me through. When the time comes to say goodbye to Mom, He will carry me. While I wait for these moments, I'll be sustained by Him. And all the while, He'll be glorified for being the good and perfect Father that He is.
Thank you Jesus, for the work You are doing. We praise You!
