Psalm 84:5-7
“Blessed are those whose strength is in You,
in whose heart are the highways to Zion.
As they go through the Valley of Baca
they make it a place of springs;
the early rain also covers it with pools.
They go from strength to strength;
each one appears before God in Zion.”
A friend said to me the other day after I had shared with her a burden on my heart, “I didn’t think anything bad ever happened to you, you’re happy all the time.” I know she was speaking in jest, as she is aware of some of the things I have walked through in the last few years, but it got me thinking. Thinking about the phrases in the bible that start with, “Blessed is the one who....”
In most of these places, the Greek word is “esher,” which means “blessedness, happiness.” Being blessed and being happy should by definition go hand in hand; the blessing of God should produce deep and abiding joy. By looking in these verses, we can find things that bring about this blessed happiness. Even within Psalm 84 we have a few examples; things such as dwelling in the house of the Lord, singing His praise, finding strength in God, trusting Him...and finally in verse 5, having within the heart “highways to Zion.”
What does this mean? I will tell you what I think of these highways that lead to Zion. I think this is in reference to the truths of scripture. My paraphrase would be something like this: “In whose heart are the Truths that point to the Lord.” Throughout the bible, we learn truth and promises that point us to the Lord; that tell us who we are in Him, that tell us how to live for Him, that reveal to us the very heart of the One True Living God. This truth within us changes us, it strengthens us, it directs us to Zion.
Look at the verses following this statement: As this blessed one goes “through the Valley of Baca, they make it a place of springs; the early rain also covers it with pools. They go from strength to strength; each one appears before God in Zion.” The Valley of Baca literally means “The Valley of Weeping”...it is a place of brokenness and despair; it is a place that wrenches sorrow from the depth of a person; it is dark, as the mountains that loom around it block out the sun. Have you been to and/or through this place? Because life has these valleys. They lie between the peaks, and we must venture through them to know the joy, the wholeness, the grace-filled growth of the other side.
But look, my friends. Look at what the blessed one whose heart points to Zion finds in the Valley of Weeping...they turn the flowing tears into springs at which to be nourished and to flourish, they find that God had gone before them and covered it with pools of water to quench their parched souls along the way (the work He’s already done in them goes with them). They find strength in this living water, and as this strength wanes from holding them up, lifting their heavy feet to move forward, dragging them across the rocky ground...it needs only to last to the next spring, where they are restored and revived by a strength that is greater still.
Yes, for the joy set before them--the Zion to which their heart longs and points--the blessed and happy pilgrim weeps their way through the valley, knowing there is glory on the other side.
So yes, I am happy. But it is not for lack of weeping. It is because my gut-wrenching sorrows always fall on the eternal joy that lives in the core of me. Over the last few painful years, I have clung to the truths I know...in the times I cannot open up the Word, it comes from within; in the moments I cannot pray, the Spirit intercedes; in the silences when I cannot sing, my redeemed soul leaps for me. God has interwoven Himself so thoroughly through my life that even in the depth of the pit, in the jagged holes at the bottom of Valley of Weeping, we cannot be separated. He is always before me; my questions lead me into His presence, my sorrow leads me into His arms, my sin leads me into His cross, and my weeping leads me into His truth.
Blessed am I and happy is my soul, redeemed by Jesus and running into Him forever.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Meditations on Psalm 84: The sparrow at the altar
For those of you who don’t know me personally, I am by nature incredibly fearful. To give you a glimpse into this, here is a story: For my birthday when I was very young (my mom said 2-years-old, although that seems incredible because I remember that day so vividly), my parents bought me a fly swatter...it stands out in my mind as the best birthday present I have ever received because of what it meant for me; it empowered me to face bugs instead of fleeing from them in a state of panic. I went carefully around the house, brave and equipped with my new weapon, ferociously pulverizing everything that even vaguely resembled a bug.
Even as an adult, I have found that I still have a natural bent toward crippling fear. But thankfully, I have learned to submit my fears as they arise to the Lord. In my mindseye there is a literal laying down of them at the foot of the cross, turning my back and walking away. Verses that speak of God conquering our fears are very real to me (such as Psalm 34:4 “I sought the Lord, and He answered me and delivered me from all my fears”).
And then I became a mother. Over the last 2 1/2 years, my life has opened up a whole new can of fears. As I observe the world around me (far and near), I feel as though my daughters have been born in the center of a den of lions--each waiting to pounce, shred and destroy. I observe statistics and patterns in culture that make my soul cringe, I hear stories of experiences that make me question all faith in humanity, I shutter my way through immorality, rebellion and deceit that make my blood curdle...and then I look into their beautiful faces. And sometimes, I weep.
I weep because I see their purity, their innocence and the carefree beauty that has been preserved thus far because they do not know what lies before or around them; I weep because I think that someone may steal it, or act against them in a way that would destroy their very core, or misuse, abuse or defile them; I weep because these fears break not only my heart but my very soul. To think of the mess they will have to navigate and the fruit of a godless society that they will have to wade through makes me want to hold them tightly in my arms and never let them go.
But life, and safety, does not work like that. I cannot protect them from all harm, I cannot live this life for them, or shield them from all darkness. I can only pray and do my best to make wise decisions for them.
This week has been particularly weighty for me surrounding the fears for their safety as I have watched the ruthlessness of sinful men poured out on one I love. As I have prayed over her, I have also found myself pleading with the Lord for my own daughters. The last few days, I have had the Spirit press on me the fact that God is- and the desire that God would be- my dwelling place. And then Psalm 84 lay open in front of me, and I found inside this lovely verse:
Psalm 84:3
“Even the sparrow finds a home,
and the swallow a nest for herself,
where she may lay her young,
at your altars, O Lord of hosts,
my King and my God.”
You know, the sparrow is the most ordinary of birds. In Matthew 10:29 it says, “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny?” They are common and literally less than a dime a dozen. And yet in this verse it says that there is a place at the altar of the Lord not only for her home, but for her young...and there she is welcome to lay them down before the Lord of hosts. Matthew 10:31 goes on to say that I am "of more value than many sparrows" to the Lord. If the sparrow can come, surely so can I.
I also think it is lovely that this declaration of who God is is so perfectly placed here. My God is the Lord of HOSTS. The first definition that shows up in Webster’s Dictionary for “host” is “army.” My God is the Lord of ARMIES. Not only does He have a place for me to rest my home and my daughters, but He has the MIGHT to protect them. He has the POWER, the FORCE, the STRENGTH, the WEAPONS, the FIGHT to do it.
And so, I will dwell with and in my God; I will build my home at His altar and I will lay my children before Him...and no matter what I see or what fears fight against my peace, I will remind myself that my God is the Lord of Hosts. And that is enough.
Even as an adult, I have found that I still have a natural bent toward crippling fear. But thankfully, I have learned to submit my fears as they arise to the Lord. In my mindseye there is a literal laying down of them at the foot of the cross, turning my back and walking away. Verses that speak of God conquering our fears are very real to me (such as Psalm 34:4 “I sought the Lord, and He answered me and delivered me from all my fears”).
And then I became a mother. Over the last 2 1/2 years, my life has opened up a whole new can of fears. As I observe the world around me (far and near), I feel as though my daughters have been born in the center of a den of lions--each waiting to pounce, shred and destroy. I observe statistics and patterns in culture that make my soul cringe, I hear stories of experiences that make me question all faith in humanity, I shutter my way through immorality, rebellion and deceit that make my blood curdle...and then I look into their beautiful faces. And sometimes, I weep.
I weep because I see their purity, their innocence and the carefree beauty that has been preserved thus far because they do not know what lies before or around them; I weep because I think that someone may steal it, or act against them in a way that would destroy their very core, or misuse, abuse or defile them; I weep because these fears break not only my heart but my very soul. To think of the mess they will have to navigate and the fruit of a godless society that they will have to wade through makes me want to hold them tightly in my arms and never let them go.
But life, and safety, does not work like that. I cannot protect them from all harm, I cannot live this life for them, or shield them from all darkness. I can only pray and do my best to make wise decisions for them.
This week has been particularly weighty for me surrounding the fears for their safety as I have watched the ruthlessness of sinful men poured out on one I love. As I have prayed over her, I have also found myself pleading with the Lord for my own daughters. The last few days, I have had the Spirit press on me the fact that God is- and the desire that God would be- my dwelling place. And then Psalm 84 lay open in front of me, and I found inside this lovely verse:
Psalm 84:3
“Even the sparrow finds a home,
and the swallow a nest for herself,
where she may lay her young,
at your altars, O Lord of hosts,
my King and my God.”
You know, the sparrow is the most ordinary of birds. In Matthew 10:29 it says, “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny?” They are common and literally less than a dime a dozen. And yet in this verse it says that there is a place at the altar of the Lord not only for her home, but for her young...and there she is welcome to lay them down before the Lord of hosts. Matthew 10:31 goes on to say that I am "of more value than many sparrows" to the Lord. If the sparrow can come, surely so can I.
I also think it is lovely that this declaration of who God is is so perfectly placed here. My God is the Lord of HOSTS. The first definition that shows up in Webster’s Dictionary for “host” is “army.” My God is the Lord of ARMIES. Not only does He have a place for me to rest my home and my daughters, but He has the MIGHT to protect them. He has the POWER, the FORCE, the STRENGTH, the WEAPONS, the FIGHT to do it.
And so, I will dwell with and in my God; I will build my home at His altar and I will lay my children before Him...and no matter what I see or what fears fight against my peace, I will remind myself that my God is the Lord of Hosts. And that is enough.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
TO DO: Write about "The Gathering"
I’ve written about a lot of things surrounding Noah’s death.
I wrote about the phone call that rocked my world
I wrote about seeing his coffin for the first time
I wrote about facing his dead body
I wrote about carrying him and burying him
I wrote about a lot of things
and the feelings and sounds that accompanied them...
but there is one thing I haven’t dared
to put on paper:
the last thing that is required of me
to write about.
On my list it says, “The Gathering.”
The gathering together of my family
the morning after Noah’s death.
There are probably many reasons why this
paralyzes my fingers
and causes the shields around my heart to raise
in a stubborn, protective hardness...
but mostly I think it is simply
the immense multiplication of pain
that accompanied this necessary coming together.
It is one thing to confront your own losses;
to feel the shattering inside
and the piercing pain of what was loved
ripped from you
dislodging pieces that you will never get back...
but it is another thing all together
to come face to face
with the others you love who did not leave you
and to look into their beautiful faces
at the realities of crushing sorrow
unimaginable pain
crumbled dreams and hearts.
There is a helplessness that washes over you
and grips your throat so that you cannot speak
as you hold onto them,
one by one,
unable to heal or rescue or revive
without the strength to move the stones that have fallen upon their shoulders
whose jagged edges have penetrated the soul
and knocked the breath from within.
My husband drove me home
(home will always be where my parents are).
I left the car and walked into the silent house
not quite knowing what I would find inside.
On the table sat a picture of my Noah,
dressed to the T in his Air Force attire,
beside it stood a vase of flowers
denoting sympathy.
I walked into the living room
where the members of my family had begun to gather
and someone stood to embrace me.
It was like I had finally reached a safe place
to release the wave of sorrow that had welled up in me
in the time I should have slept the night before.
One by one
I looked into their beautiful faces
our sadness and brokenness colliding for the first time
causing us to fall together into an embrace that held the other up.
One by one
I looked into their beautiful faces
and the weight of their shattered worlds
met the weight of mine
with deep understanding
that allowed us the freedom to crumble.
One by one...
The 9 of us arrived over that Sunday and Monday,
though mere months before we had been scattered across the country,
God had brought us all in varying measures closer
simplifying the logistics of togetherness for us.
I found my feet to be heavy
as if weights kept them from running to meet
my loved ones as they arrived;
knowing the pain I would find in their embrace
would cause my heart to overflow yet again.
But finally the gathering was complete
and we sat together in heaps around the living room
we had grown up together in
and spoke of the newest gaping hole we had to face
and the wonder of the boy man who had filled it.
And though the coming together
was a pain unlike others I have known
the peace of each others’ presence was enough
to nourish my shattered world
with the promise of healing and
the reality that we did not sorrow alone.
And sometimes that is enough
for the moments
that paralyze my fingers
when my mind thinks upon them.
I love you all,
my Papa
and my Mama
my Abigail Ruth
my Joshua Michael John
my Jacob Olaf
my Nathanael Martin
my Naomi Anne
my Rachel Helen
my Eve Elizabeth
my Samuel Andrew
I would gladly walk with you
through any fire
that you would not have to walk alone.
I will gladly share in every sorrow
that must flow across your beautiful faces
and will forever be grateful
that you are willing to share in mine.
I wrote about the phone call that rocked my world
I wrote about seeing his coffin for the first time
I wrote about facing his dead body
I wrote about carrying him and burying him
I wrote about a lot of things
and the feelings and sounds that accompanied them...
but there is one thing I haven’t dared
to put on paper:
the last thing that is required of me
to write about.
On my list it says, “The Gathering.”
The gathering together of my family
the morning after Noah’s death.
There are probably many reasons why this
paralyzes my fingers
and causes the shields around my heart to raise
in a stubborn, protective hardness...
but mostly I think it is simply
the immense multiplication of pain
that accompanied this necessary coming together.
It is one thing to confront your own losses;
to feel the shattering inside
and the piercing pain of what was loved
ripped from you
dislodging pieces that you will never get back...
but it is another thing all together
to come face to face
with the others you love who did not leave you
and to look into their beautiful faces
at the realities of crushing sorrow
unimaginable pain
crumbled dreams and hearts.
There is a helplessness that washes over you
and grips your throat so that you cannot speak
as you hold onto them,
one by one,
unable to heal or rescue or revive
without the strength to move the stones that have fallen upon their shoulders
whose jagged edges have penetrated the soul
and knocked the breath from within.
My husband drove me home
(home will always be where my parents are).
I left the car and walked into the silent house
not quite knowing what I would find inside.
On the table sat a picture of my Noah,
dressed to the T in his Air Force attire,
beside it stood a vase of flowers
denoting sympathy.
I walked into the living room
where the members of my family had begun to gather
and someone stood to embrace me.
It was like I had finally reached a safe place
to release the wave of sorrow that had welled up in me
in the time I should have slept the night before.
One by one
I looked into their beautiful faces
our sadness and brokenness colliding for the first time
causing us to fall together into an embrace that held the other up.
One by one
I looked into their beautiful faces
and the weight of their shattered worlds
met the weight of mine
with deep understanding
that allowed us the freedom to crumble.
One by one...
The 9 of us arrived over that Sunday and Monday,
though mere months before we had been scattered across the country,
God had brought us all in varying measures closer
simplifying the logistics of togetherness for us.
I found my feet to be heavy
as if weights kept them from running to meet
my loved ones as they arrived;
knowing the pain I would find in their embrace
would cause my heart to overflow yet again.
But finally the gathering was complete
and we sat together in heaps around the living room
we had grown up together in
and spoke of the newest gaping hole we had to face
and the wonder of the boy man who had filled it.
And though the coming together
was a pain unlike others I have known
the peace of each others’ presence was enough
to nourish my shattered world
with the promise of healing and
the reality that we did not sorrow alone.
And sometimes that is enough
for the moments
that paralyze my fingers
when my mind thinks upon them.
I love you all,
my Papa
and my Mama
my Abigail Ruth
my Joshua Michael John
my Jacob Olaf
my Nathanael Martin
my Naomi Anne
my Rachel Helen
my Eve Elizabeth
my Samuel Andrew
I would gladly walk with you
through any fire
that you would not have to walk alone.
I will gladly share in every sorrow
that must flow across your beautiful faces
and will forever be grateful
that you are willing to share in mine.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Strength in weakness?
Today in church, we sang a worship song with the lyrics “All of You is more than enough for all of me, for every thirst and every need. You satisfy me with your love, and all I have in You is more than enough.” Then the worship leader read this passage from 2 Corinthians 12:9-10: “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
I found myself shaking my head, so I sat down, and this is what I wrote:
“I know that You are MORE THAN ENOUGH for not just all of me, but all of everything. I KNOW that when I am weakest, I am strongest because You are ALL of my strength...But Lord, right now, I do not delight in my trials, my hardships, my pains; I do not boast gladly in my weaknesses...I do not rejoice in them, and I do know what that feels like. I am instead in a state of sorrow over them. My soul languishes as I tell myself Your truths with the hopes that my heart will believe them and allow the truth of You and Your sufficiency to replace the mess inside of me. It is a new time of holding on to Your promises and to Your truths while very little (if any) parts of me FEELS them to be true. But You know exactly where I am, and even in my floundering, I feel and see that You are gentle with me; I see Your hand moving around me, trying to dissipate my fears with Your kindness and Your love. 1 John 4:18 “Perfect love drives out fear.” I know You do not condemn me or shame me because of where I am. I know You open my eyes to see only what I can take in at that moment and that it is ok with You that I am right here. So if I have to settle in this place of great discomfort for this time, I ask only that You don’t leave me; don’t leave me alone and don’t leave me here.”
I found myself shaking my head, so I sat down, and this is what I wrote:
“I know that You are MORE THAN ENOUGH for not just all of me, but all of everything. I KNOW that when I am weakest, I am strongest because You are ALL of my strength...But Lord, right now, I do not delight in my trials, my hardships, my pains; I do not boast gladly in my weaknesses...I do not rejoice in them, and I do know what that feels like. I am instead in a state of sorrow over them. My soul languishes as I tell myself Your truths with the hopes that my heart will believe them and allow the truth of You and Your sufficiency to replace the mess inside of me. It is a new time of holding on to Your promises and to Your truths while very little (if any) parts of me FEELS them to be true. But You know exactly where I am, and even in my floundering, I feel and see that You are gentle with me; I see Your hand moving around me, trying to dissipate my fears with Your kindness and Your love. 1 John 4:18 “Perfect love drives out fear.” I know You do not condemn me or shame me because of where I am. I know You open my eyes to see only what I can take in at that moment and that it is ok with You that I am right here. So if I have to settle in this place of great discomfort for this time, I ask only that You don’t leave me; don’t leave me alone and don’t leave me here.”
Sunday, March 10, 2013
the realization of another loss
afraid to move
©3-9-13 hannah mclean
why do i hide?
do i hide from You?
or from another?
in my desperate desire for peace
it is as if i cannot bring myself
out into the open
for fear of what new burdens
i will be asked to lift.
i fear my muscles have atrophied
and i have not the courage to try.
skirting the outside
of my calling
i cautiously run my finger along the edge
wondering why i cannot bring myself
to leap in.
i have never been one to hold back
at Your requests
no matter the size or the impossibility,
and yet
though what You ask of me now
requires nothing from others
but only my own faith...
i falter.
why do i hide?
do i hide from You?
or do i hide from me?
perhaps i fear the toll of this past season
has drained me of the strength
to stand
when maybe You have only called me
to kneel;
i hold onto the testimonies of the past
afraid to allow new ones to form
for fear that i will fall
if i loosen my grasp
to reach for another.
i am afraid to look into the new depths
the new lengths
the new heights
the new widths
that this season has brought me to.
but why do i hide?
why would i fear Your love for me?
is it because of the pain it required
to bring me here?
i sincerely DO
want to know You
in this new place
i do not want to hide.
i just don’t know how to
open my eyes or
move my feet or
fold my hands
with the boldness i have grown
to expect of myself in days past.
and so i wait in the presence
of Your truth
for the faith to move.
©3-9-13 hannah mclean
why do i hide?
do i hide from You?
or from another?
in my desperate desire for peace
it is as if i cannot bring myself
out into the open
for fear of what new burdens
i will be asked to lift.
i fear my muscles have atrophied
and i have not the courage to try.
skirting the outside
of my calling
i cautiously run my finger along the edge
wondering why i cannot bring myself
to leap in.
i have never been one to hold back
at Your requests
no matter the size or the impossibility,
and yet
though what You ask of me now
requires nothing from others
but only my own faith...
i falter.
why do i hide?
do i hide from You?
or do i hide from me?
perhaps i fear the toll of this past season
has drained me of the strength
to stand
when maybe You have only called me
to kneel;
i hold onto the testimonies of the past
afraid to allow new ones to form
for fear that i will fall
if i loosen my grasp
to reach for another.
i am afraid to look into the new depths
the new lengths
the new heights
the new widths
that this season has brought me to.
but why do i hide?
why would i fear Your love for me?
is it because of the pain it required
to bring me here?
i sincerely DO
want to know You
in this new place
i do not want to hide.
i just don’t know how to
open my eyes or
move my feet or
fold my hands
with the boldness i have grown
to expect of myself in days past.
and so i wait in the presence
of Your truth
for the faith to move.
Friday, March 8, 2013
a voice from the trenches
lift me up
©4-8-13 hannah mclean
dragged along the trenches
my body weakens as it grates across
the rocky surface
beneath my aching back
i struggle to rise
under the weight of
defeat...
declaring otherwise...
trying to convince myself
victory will come
why do You leave me here
bruised and bleeding
discouraged and tearful
floundering and afraid?
why will You not lift me up?
why do You leave me here
caked and corroded
in the pits beside the pathway
of hope
unable to stand
on my own feet
painfully aware of the insufficiency of
the strength i possess?
lift me up!
lift me out of this filthy place
encourage my heart and
remind me that i do not walk alone
Your presence matters
Your words are real
You are sufficient...
even when i cannot see You
or feel Your ever moving hand
or hear Your steady calming voice
i raise my shaking hand to You
and hoarsely whisper
“help me.
please.
please.
i cannot.”
©4-8-13 hannah mclean
dragged along the trenches
my body weakens as it grates across
the rocky surface
beneath my aching back
i struggle to rise
under the weight of
defeat...
declaring otherwise...
trying to convince myself
victory will come
why do You leave me here
bruised and bleeding
discouraged and tearful
floundering and afraid?
why will You not lift me up?
why do You leave me here
caked and corroded
in the pits beside the pathway
of hope
unable to stand
on my own feet
painfully aware of the insufficiency of
the strength i possess?
lift me up!
lift me out of this filthy place
encourage my heart and
remind me that i do not walk alone
Your presence matters
Your words are real
You are sufficient...
even when i cannot see You
or feel Your ever moving hand
or hear Your steady calming voice
i raise my shaking hand to You
and hoarsely whisper
“help me.
please.
please.
i cannot.”
Thursday, January 31, 2013
AUDREY (of noble strength) ARABELLE (prayerful)
My baby girl Audrey Arabelle was born on Tuesday. She was 3 1/2 weeks early, but perfect in every way. I spent the majority of the first day in the hospital alone with her, and as I looked down at her in my arms, inspected her beautiful face, watched her perfectly formed fingers curl around mine, and counted her tiny toes...I was so overwhelmed.
I have been in a season of remembering; as I have exited 2012, I have entered 2013 with a prayer for a year of peace. 2012 was a painful year; it was filled with separation, life-altering loss, physical upheaval and emotional chaos. Don’t get me wrong, it was also punctuated with immense blessing and God was faithful every momentl; I experienced much peace while walking, stumbling or crawling through the trials that met me each day of my year. His promised peace surpasses understanding, and I fought for it daily and found that He never fails. But while 2012 brought new depth of promised peace, it was not a peaceful time and I didn’t look backwards as the calendar switched.
And because of what my year held, as I look down into my beautiful baby’s face, I know that God has covered her and protected her and all that I walked through did not touch her. What a merciful and unlimited God. When she was in the womb, my prayers for her reflected a child who would have much strength. Before we found out the gender, I was struck by how different my prayers were for this baby than for Myla, I figured it was either a boy or a very strong woman...and here in my arms is this tiny, delicate creature who against all odds I could offer (i.e. a failing body with a troubled mind to carry her while she developed all she would need to survive and thrive outside of me), was unscathed, untouched, healthy...lovely. When I see her, I see God’s faithfulness; I know His strength is always greater than mine; I sense His promise of a lighter season; I see beauty arise out of ashes.
My dearest Audrey Arabelle, I pray you would draw your strength always from the right source--your almighty Creator, the Sustainer of your life--and that you would be one who sits with Him continually in His throne room of prayer, firm in faith in the One who is always faithful. I look into your face and through my mind rolls one statement, full of hope; “You’re going to move mountains, baby. I just know it.”
I have been in a season of remembering; as I have exited 2012, I have entered 2013 with a prayer for a year of peace. 2012 was a painful year; it was filled with separation, life-altering loss, physical upheaval and emotional chaos. Don’t get me wrong, it was also punctuated with immense blessing and God was faithful every momentl; I experienced much peace while walking, stumbling or crawling through the trials that met me each day of my year. His promised peace surpasses understanding, and I fought for it daily and found that He never fails. But while 2012 brought new depth of promised peace, it was not a peaceful time and I didn’t look backwards as the calendar switched.
And because of what my year held, as I look down into my beautiful baby’s face, I know that God has covered her and protected her and all that I walked through did not touch her. What a merciful and unlimited God. When she was in the womb, my prayers for her reflected a child who would have much strength. Before we found out the gender, I was struck by how different my prayers were for this baby than for Myla, I figured it was either a boy or a very strong woman...and here in my arms is this tiny, delicate creature who against all odds I could offer (i.e. a failing body with a troubled mind to carry her while she developed all she would need to survive and thrive outside of me), was unscathed, untouched, healthy...lovely. When I see her, I see God’s faithfulness; I know His strength is always greater than mine; I sense His promise of a lighter season; I see beauty arise out of ashes.
My dearest Audrey Arabelle, I pray you would draw your strength always from the right source--your almighty Creator, the Sustainer of your life--and that you would be one who sits with Him continually in His throne room of prayer, firm in faith in the One who is always faithful. I look into your face and through my mind rolls one statement, full of hope; “You’re going to move mountains, baby. I just know it.”
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