Haste the day.
I woke wobbly on Wednesday morning, unsure of what the day would hold. Two days earlier, we had read the news on a screen: our dear friends had lost a baby. His tiny heart had beaten steadily for thirty-nine weeks, but emerged still and silent.
I had just watched a rerun from the show with all the kids. Tears fell as I watched them struggle to find the heartbeat of their twentieth, a baby girl, still hidden away in mother's womb.
And the peace that befell this sweet mother's face in the midst of her grief and loss was overwhelming to me. She wept for the life of her daughter, the plans that were made in anticipation of her arrival. But she acknowledged that the Lord gives and takes away, and that His plans are not our own.
I found comfort in her words as we drove to the funeral for David and Jessica's son: "her eyes never opened to see me, but her eyes were opened and she saw the Lord first."
And when we arrived to the church, we saw the lyrics to that old familiar hymn: when peace like a river attendeth my way.
We've been studying about wellness at church over the past few weeks, and how it can only happen when your whole body and your whole heart and your whole mind are surrendered to the Lord.
I'll be the first to admit that sometimes, surrendering is the last thing I want to do. Because how on earth can we speak the words blessed be the name of the Lord when what He gives doesn't feel like a blessing?
How can we cease this striving when we feel as though we have been cheated out of something we deserved, something we prayed for, longed for, planned for? I flinch and flail, my soul recoiling from the shock of it all.
Still, I marveled at the faith before me as David stood over his son's coffin. There would be no little league victories, no high school or college graduations, no championship seasons, no wedding. Michael would never go on to have children of his own. So with a shaky voice and tear filled eyes, David motioned to the coffin and said "this is my son, in whom I am well pleased."
Anger, fear, and sadness flooded my cheeks as my heart wrestled to say that this, even this, could be well with my soul. And then came the whisper, sure as David's voice as he spoke over his son. Our God is no stranger to this pain.
He watched his one and only son be beaten and hung on a cross -- all for the sake of proving that he was trustworthy.
Days later, even as I wrestle these words onto the page, He whispers "you can trust Me."
Because no circumstance is happenstance to the God who promises to go before us. We can never carry a cross that He did not bear first on our behalf.
It is true, there are days -- so many days -- when I just want to throw in the towel. It is a figure of speech used in wrestling, a way of saying that you just can't go on anymore. And I think of Jacob, who wrestled with God himself. Even at the break of day, Jacob refused to let go until he received God's blessing.
I find myself slowly opening my hands to receive even this, and I pray Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight.
Because of this I am confident: I will see God's goodness.
Even so, it is well with my soul.
David sang this song at Michael's funeral, and it hasn't stopped playing since.
{You are rich in mercy, slow to anger. Your love endures forever. Who is like You, Lord, in all the world?}