A Glorious Light Beyond All Compare

Grazing by my mailbox at dusk tonight was a pregnant doe so heavy with twins (because somewhere in the recesses of my mind lies the odd piece of trivia that deer always carry twins) she was quite literally waddling. How unnatural to be jealous of wildlife.

This morning we were able to go back to our home church after the end of Birch’s interim pastorship. Amazingly, it never occurred to me that I would have to sit through a Mother’s Day baby dedication. That is, after all, what churches do on Mother’s Day. Had I prepared myself, I would have been fine. I’m sure. As soon as we realized what was about to happen, my firstborn reached over and took my hand. How I hate and love that at times she’s become my comforter.

I first endured the dedication of the one-month-old baby boy. Difficult, to be sure, but do-able. But next was the dedication of the little boy who was due at the same time as my last dead son. Blond. Adorable. Most importantly, alive. It is how he appears in my mind.

I had one of those fight versus flight moments. I was threatened with the snotty kind of crying versus the public display of fleeing. Which is worse? Hmm. I was doing that self-talk I do. “You’re okay. Stop it. Be anywhere but here. You’re a piece of furniture" (This one’s a handy tip I learned from a girl in Charlotte years ago. I’ve used this one often since).

And then after the parents had pledged to raise their children in the church, it was our turn to pledge to help raise them in our church community. And so I, in utter raspberry-blowing style, refused to murmur my “I will.” I showed them.

And then it was over. Five whole minutes that stretched out like fifty. Everyone moved on. I stayed there in that moment. I had a sermon amount of time to play the “what if’s” and “maybe we can __________'s”.

During the closing prayer, as we stood and Mouse sprawled out across my seat, we were to spend some quiet reflection in prayer. I stood there, one hand holding the other wrist behind my back. I halfheartedly spoke to God. I reminded Him of my failures, both spiritual and physical. And then I felt five warm fingers curl around mine. In the middle of prayer, Carolina had reached up and grasped my hand, just because it was there.

And I was jolted out of my wallowing with that goodness, and I was assaulted with my own stench of self-pity. I remembered yesterday, as the dog and I pounded the walking trail, I was thinking about how, from the beginning of man, people have known tragedy and misery to varying degrees. I was thinking about the Spartan mothers sending their sons off to become tough men at Holt’s age. I was thinking about mothers throughout history who’ve watched their children starve. I thought about mothers born into cultures where they never heard the name of Jesus. I thought of friends of my own who’ve prayed over their children in hospitals with staggering obstacles and odds.

Suffering is part of the collective human experience. And truthfully, when I look at what I consider my suffering to be, I'm ashamed. My life's tragedies revolve around not having more of the blessings I already have! When I compare it to real suffering, it's hard to believe that God hasn't slapped me around before now. And to listen to my brain whine with the “why me’s” is really getting old. I'm guessing it is for you too.

Enough!

And as I stood there holding onto Sweet Carolina’s hand, I began to realize that I couldn't be the only one having a difficult time this morning. The veil was lifted as I scanned that auditorium where there are surely countless people dealing with the pain of life in one form or another. For the first time today I thought about my own mother, who is spending her first Mother’s Day after the loss of her mom this year. How truly self consumed I am.

And the song we sang earlier that morning finally sunk in:

And I can see a light that is coming for the heart that holds on
A glorious light beyond all compare
And there will be an end to these troubles
But until that day comes
We’ll live to know You here on the earth

Oh no, You never let go
Through the calm and through the storm
Oh no, You never let go
In every high and every low
Oh no, You never let go
Lord, You never let go of me

Life is painful. There is joy, to be sure, but there is so much suffering. Disease. Death. Infertility. Stillbirth. Bankruptcy. Divorce. Addiction. Loneliness. And on and on. But the gift of it all is that, because of Grace, there is a day coming where none of those things exist. And in the meantime, we were not made to suffer alone. He never lets go of His own, through the calm and through the storm.

As beautiful as life can be, I praise God that it is temporary. Because what is not temporary, what is eternal, is what is coming.

And in the smallness of her hand, I felt the bigness of His love. He never lets go of me.