THE INNER WORKINGS...

one year later

Today marks one year since we lost Dad. And as I was anticipating this day - this dreadful day - I considered what sort of story I could tell about this past year. I considered what my testimony of "one year later" might be. And what it's not.

To be honest, I can often bristle at testimonies. Especially the end-of-the-story, now-that-I'm-already-all-better, bow-already-tied-around-it, full-of-blessings-and-amens kind. Maybe because my stories don't quite look that way. My bows tend to look sloppy and haphazard, and they always seem to be making up for something.

You know these kinds of testimonies; they're ubiquitous. But one in particular comes to mind. Earlier this year, I heard someone give a testimony of this really dark season that they had walked through when they experienced multiple losses within their family. My heart was quickened, because, as I have been walking through my own journey of grief, I thought, "Now this person will get me." I was anxious to hear about the ways that God had sustained them, the ways that God had been present in it all. We got the beginning of the story: the tragedy. But it felt like this person skipped right over the middle of the story and rushed to the end: telling about the hundreds (there was a literal number shared) of the people that have begun personal relationships with God due to their family members passing away. All around me, hands raised, applause ensued, and there were hearty "amens". And, on one hand, that makes sense. Because if we can put the grief on one side of the scale and the blessings on the other, and if the blessings can outweigh the grief, then maybe we've figured out the "why" and maybe, well... it was all worth it.

But I sat there with my arms crossed, feeling a little lost. Because I don't think that's the point. "Tell me about the middle of the story!" I wanted to shout. Tell me about the days that it felt like your soul wouldn't withstand the weight of sadness. Tell me about how you wrestled and struggled and fell short of believing God's promises, but how He kept them anyway. Tell me about the times that you mustered up all the energy in you just to try to walk in the direction of faith, and He welcomed your pitiful advances. Tell me about who God has been to you. Don't tell me about his blessings; tell me about his presence. Tell me how He was enough for you when all you felt was excruciating lack.

In Isaiah 61, God promises to give us beautiful headdresses instead of ashes, oil of gladness instead of mourning. And to that I say yes and amen. And bring it on. But here's the catch: the ashes are not the beauty.

If you were to ask me what God has done in my life in the past 12 months of mourning and missing Dad, I honestly couldn't tell you about the countless blessings that have come about because of our grief. It's not that they don't exist; it's just that I don't think they're the point. I certainly couldn't tell you about the dozens of people who have started a relationship with God because of his death. I don't have a testimony of smoke-and-strobe-light miracles. And I certainly don't have a bow.

Because God hasn't made it better.

The weight of the grief in the scale is still heavy. The wounds haven't healed. I still have a Dad-shaped hole in the depths of my heart and in the living-out of my life. I still can't call Dad to ask him for fatherly advice. I still can't share Christmases and birthdays and long drives with him. I still can't be wrapped up in his bear hugs and feel the safety of his strong arms. I still can't call him and talk about how the Chargers almost moved to LA or about how I jump-started my car all by myself. The ashes are still very, very present.

And God hasn't made it better. But - and oh, how I feel the weight of this last year when I say this - God has been better.

Because I am not promised the bow. But I am promised a with-ness, a presence, a fighting-for that has been the only sustaining power in my last 365 days. God says through Isaiah: "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you..." He has not saved me from the rising waters. But, oh, how He has held me close in the midst of them.

He has held me as I have cried through the night. He has reassured me as I anxiously wondered how we would ever be able to walk this journey. He has spoken to my heart with a Father's tender voice. He has given me strength to keep on walking, and sometimes He's given me the strength to let myself fall into a pile of grief. He's quickened my heart to the truth of heaven, and He's held my cynicism and doubts when I've asked painful questions. He's shouldered my regrets. He's walked with me.

I am learning that God's faithfulness is not measured in the number of blessings we can stack up on the other side of the scale. No. God's faithfulness is in him being who He said He would be. And in this past year, as the hymn says, God has proved Himself o'er and o'er. He has been a Father to the fatherless. He has held me and counted my tears. He has put the solitary in homes. He has loved with an everlasting love. He has been merciful and present. He has relieved me of savioring duties when they were too much to bear. He has been a present help in time of trouble. He has been closer than a friend. He has been my Rock and Fortress. He has been Comforter. Faithful Pursuer. Wonderful Counselor. Tender Father.

And I suppose that is my testimony, one year later. A testimony marked by the drawing oh-so-near of a God who holds both the overwhelming weight of my sorrow and the unexplainable hope of His presence together in my heart. No smoke, no strobe lights. No bow. Just Him.

posted by Courtney @ 1:24 AM