“Grief bleeds through the pages of our lives, marking the pages and stories that follow,” says Jonathan Trotter. “Failing to acknowledge these chapters is to censor. To edit out. To delete plot twists and main characters. To murder history. So we leave the pages as they are, splotched and imperfect. . . .”
So I won’t censor here. I won’t edit out. Instead, I’ll blurt it out: It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do: to let go of my son, Matt, and my daughter, Karen—those precious, beloved children God had given to me—to turn my back on them and, instead, go where God’s finger pointed.
As I told you before, “Sometimes
people and things can become too important to us,” writes Chuck Swindoll. “We
grip them with closed fists and white knuckles, and God has to pry open our
fingers to loosen our hold.” (Abraham, The Friend of God)
Beth Moore’s words capture what I faced. She asked herself, “What if this is a critical moment? What if this very thing, this very decision, is the most important piece of the purpose comprising my purpose?”
I sensed God asking me to do something similar to what He had asked Abraham—to place his child on an altar as a sacrifice to Him. God’s request would reveal to Him, and perhaps just as important, it would reveal to Abraham, whether God was Number One in his life.
God seemed to stand there and ask if I would give highest priority to Him and His plans for me rather than to my plans to live near my children and enjoy them.
Again, dear Beth Moore put into words what I could not have. She writes, “At some of the hardest times of my life, I have been able to make the more difficult choice out of pure blind-eyed, bent-kneed acceptance that it was somehow part of a greater plan.” (Beth Moore, Esther)
I knew what I had to do.
One by one, I placed my kids on an altar I had pictured in my mind. I began with my precious Karen. I had to let go, offer her up to God, walk away, and grieve—grieve—for days.
I repeated the process with son Matt.
My mourning was palpable.
This month-long process left me emotionally spent, numb, my heart torn to shreds. How can I put it into words? I can’t. Words can’t capture the utter rawness, the unspeakable ravages of dying to oneself in order to die to one’s children, even when we do it because God is asking that of us.
What does a person do next? Where does a person go next? What does a person think next?
Anne Lamott wrote about grief. “Your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold. . . .”
I felt like Habakkuk, who cried out to the Lord, “How long, O Lord? I shout to you in vain; You don’t answer” (Habakkuk 1:2). I hollered at Him: “So, I’ll never get over this pain? This broken heart of mine will never heal completely? The rest of my life will feel like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly and still hurts when the weather gets cold? Is that what I have to look forward to? Is that what You want for me?”
All I could do was stand hopelessly broken and exhausted and stare at God, shaking my fists, demanding His answer. When Habakkuk cried out, God answered “Look, watch—and be utterly amazed. For I am going to do something that you wouldn’t believe even if someone told you about it.”
Habakkuk said, in effect, “God says He’s going to answer. So, okay, then, I’ll stand here, alert, waiting, watching for His answer. I’ll wait attentively, vigilantly, to hear what God has to say.” (Habakkuk 2:1)
That’s all I could do. Watch and wait. Watch
and wait. To be still and watch and wait for God’s answer, for His
clarification. Watch and wait for Him to help me take a breath, and then one
more breath, His help to place one foot in front of the other, baby step by baby
step.
But there was one more thing Anne Lamott observed about grief.
Yes, that broken leg would not heal completely, but:
“You’ll learn to dance with the limp.”
I would watch and wait, watch and wait.
When He finally spoke, would God tell me
that I’d learn to dance with the limp?
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