Like a birthday or an anniversary, for weeks the date of our departure has been staring at me from every calendar, circling my thoughts and emotions back to the beginning and back through the journey.
A year since the LORD led my little ones and me away from our home for a season. We arrived in Texas at the beginning of hurricane season and at the beginning of a season of change, a season of wilderness, of darkness and light, of bondage and freedom, of great and mighty things being done... and being begun. Of pain. And, yes, of joy.
The date has dared me to be silent, to overlook, to pretend it never happened.
But to do that, to ignore the way in which the LORD chose to work, is, in a sense, also to ignore His working. And I don't want to do that.
In order to praise, I need to remember.
So I look for ways to celebrate what the LORD has done, and I remember.
I remember on Sunday, as I sit peacefully with Grace in the nursery, that Sunday 365-revolutions-of-the-earth ago -
...when, while getting ready for church, open hostility was declared,
...when, in the nursery with my oldest and youngest, the fever pitch of the battle not against flesh and blood left bruises and gouges on my arms and shoulders,
...when, hearing the sermon broadcast over the monitor as I cried out to God for help, I felt abandoned and shut out.
I remember how on that Sunday afternoon a year ago my sister called me from Turkey, and I wept and we prayed. As I am remembering and fighting for joy, she calls me, and I weep as we pray.
I remember that evening as we sit cosily, thankfully, as a family around the supper table how on that Sunday evening a year ago I had looked across the table at darkness and anger and had prayed for empathy. I seemed to enter into the darkness, then a wave of nausea washed over me and my head began to vibrate.
I remember on Monday as I go about the business of our home - making meals and beds, doing laundry, schooling the girls, laughing, scolding, talking about everything and nothing - how my head still vibrated when my friend Barbara came to pray with me; how at first I couldn't pray and then I prayed for mercy; how my heart was tight; how I couldn't think clearly to prepare a meal; how we made the circuit of fast food restaurants and I tried to act normal when Jim came home.
I remember on Tuesday as I conceal the everyday circles under my eyes, scraping the last bit of makeup from the green compact, thinking of its purchase that day the year before - not the product I usually use but they were out of stock. Different makeup for a different year. I remember how we had sat in the parking lot of the mall, fast food meals in laps, looking at a lifeless carnival waiting for Friday. Its empty promise of pleasure seemed to mock me. I tried to talk to the girls about how fun the rides can be as I considered the invitation we had just received to come away and rest for awhile. I determined not to go without his permission.
I remember on Wednesday when, at the mall to look for dress pants for Jim, I see a lifeless carnival waiting for Friday. I am thankful that it has been set up at the other end of the parking lot. A little difference eases the memory. I look more closely, seeking to be glad in remembering, and see something that makes me smile. A ride at the far end of the carnival would be lit up on Friday night with this hopeful name, "Starship Exodus."
Exodus. I remember that He had prepared a way for us. He went before us, even into the darkness, into the cloud.
Later that day, I mention to a friend the struggle I had been having in remembering with joy. Speaking it out loosens its grip on me.
As I go on remembering, I ask for grace to draw the contrasts and give thanks.
I remember the sacrificial ways our family cared for us, the friends who reached out, the body of Christ that prayed, the gentleness and patient ministry of shepherds, of the Shepherd.
I remember the greatness of His mercy in bringing salvation to Jim, wholeness to our family.
I remember the purposes of the LORD in my heart; how HE, as our pastor taught, used difficulty to stir up the sediment of sin. I remember how HE purposed my pain in order to bring about my freedom.
As I see the girls laugh and play, express themselves, talk to people, I remember and draw the contrast and I give thanks.
As I listen to Jim read the Word and pray with the girls as they settle down for the night, I remember and draw the contrast and I give thanks.
As Jim and I grow in new ways of oneness and I fight to keep my heart open in spite of hurt, I remember and draw the contrast and I give thanks.
I think about how God purposes that the major deliverances of His people become milestones of giving praise to Him. All through the story of God's people, they are commanded, and given instructions in how, to remember and give thanks - with feasting and song and giving gifts of food to the poor.
I think, too, about how the celebration of a great deliverance probably felt the first year it was celebrated (the Exodus?, Esther?, the exiles' return to Jerusalem and the rebuilding of the temple?). The greatness of God's deliverance was felt in proportion to the reality of the distress. I don't doubt that the bitter was remembered, was felt, with the sweet. In fact, the bitter drew the contrast which magnified the sweet.
Light was celebrated in overcoming darkness.
Love was exalted as hate was vanquished.
Our God to whom all things are possible does the impossible, in a way we could never imagine - that HE might be glorified. That we might tremble as we rejoice in our nothingness before Him.
It is true in each story of salvation.
And when it comes down to it, that is our joy. We have a Redeemer who drank the whole cup of the wrath of God for us that we might drink of Him and live!
He sings a love song over us,
"I came to my garden, my sister, my bride, I gathered my myrrh with my spice, I ate my honeycomb with my honey, I drank my wine with my milk."
He drank the bitter with the sweet so that we might take the invitation,
"Eat, friends, drink,
and be drunk with love!" (Song of Sol. 5:1)
We ate and drank today... we feasted! At noon at McDonald's, a fast food feast that was all sweet in the pleasure we had in one another.
We had song today, around the breakfast table, declaring the greatness of God in lisps and signs: "My God is so BIG, so strong and so mighty, there's nothing my God cannot do!"
We gave gifts of food to the poor... ok, not the poor exactly, unless you count starved-for-company poverty. We shared our evening meal with the young man who is housesitting for Jim's colleague.
After dinner, we laughed as the girls squeezed themselves into last year's spring dresses, dresses that were hanging in the closet in Texas when we arrived, a welcoming gift, a token of love. I used cuticle scissors to cut off the sashes that were making it impossible to button them so that the girls can wear them one more time tomorrow.
And we'll smile and laugh as we remember, and, more, we'll rejoice in growth and change and contrasts and in the goodness and greatness of our God!
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