Laying in bed at the end of a hectic weekend. The dog is lapping up lake Michigan, in the kitchen, the girls are settled into dreamland, coach is putting final touches on coaching plan for tomorrow and I am laying here, reflecting on yet another of my good friend, Sarah's, posts (you are REALLY cooking' good stuff, mama).
She talks about a time when the only thing that got her out of bed some days was a commitment to her dance lessons.
I think of a few times in my life when I ran from singing because I thought my sorrow or anger ran too deep. I thought my song spoiled by my rage or heart-break. I always regretted it.
When Roy Finney died, I did not sing in the choir at his funeral but helped start Go Ye Now in Peace at his graveside. I will never regret openly weeping as I sang, because I allowed myself to say goodbye in a real way, rather than allow my grief to steal that moment from me.
I did not sing most of my first marriage. My mother wrote a poem about she who could not sing for crying. There was so much hurt during that time, I could not see much to sing about.
I sang By My Side as Riley died inside my womb. The simple songs of praise in Godspell; the simple act of stepping outside myself and the earth-shattering loss I was dealing with truly acted as a lifeline.
I cannot downplay the importance of loved ones around me during times of crisis. It is not that only the song got through. But it certainly helped.
I was an adult before I realized that, perhaps, God did not give me the gift of voice only to entertain but to praise Him and act as a beacon to others. It is an injustice to ignore this gift when I am hurting. It is precisely this gift that has lifted me out of the depths over and over.
Thank God He can see what we cannot.
