I remember the first church service I attended in 2020. I recollect how glad the saints were and how much expectation filled the sanctuary. Now, as this year is coming to a close and becoming a tale in history, I cannot wrap my head around all of the grief that this year has ushered in.
In the early days of the pandemic, I found myself sitting with God for much longer than ever before. I enjoyed the stillness. The extended time to commune with God made my soul at ease. While the outside world was in disarray, I was glad to be stabilized in faith. I remember penning prayers and writing honest reflections about the condition of my heart. I was nervous but not anxious. Surprised but ever hopeful. Calm but delighted about my future. But somewhere in all of the praying, persisting, and surviving I ran out of breath. I lost language to describe the grievances that came upon me. And for the first time since my baptism nearly seven years ago, I felt like God had abandoned me. I have learned that mourning is not just confined to kindred loss. I have mourned the plans I dreamed to see fulfilled. There was so much more fruit I wanted to bear. A desire to love harder and show up for the ones I love even more was my aim. Yet the absence of it all and the immobility I have felt has shaken me to my core, creating a saddened and somber spirit in me. Remembering that God is faithful through this time has felt like a chore because my grief has taken precedent. My heartbreak makes sense, whereas this moment in my faith does not. When entering my twenty-first year of living in February, just a month before our "new normal" made way, God spoke unto me a beautiful thing. He declared that this year was to be my "Heavenly Seated" year. The reasoning was this:
I have that paragraph penned, and I cannot tell of how many times I've questioned it. This year has cut me deep — probably deeper than any year prior — yet God has called me to remain Heavenly seated when I am losing my grip on hope for tomorrow? Seemed quite ludicrous. When surveying moments of my past, looking there rather than before me seems favorable. Better days seem behind me. Ahead of me, more unpredictable moments await me. This is why I am most hesitant. This is why I feel stagnant. This day requires a renewed spirit. A renewed faith. A renewed mind. And it requires God, who is the same God of my yesterday. Even with that truth known to me, I still find myself coming up short. And new questions follow. Why is this season so hard to bear? Why is it difficult to choose faith over fragility? Why do I appear to be losing more than gaining? At this point of the text, I hope that this reads as a companion who is trying to weather the storm rather than a woman of great faith who has it all together. I, frankly, do not. But I pray that I live long enough for my grandchildren to ask me about these days. It will remind me of the heartache that I’m feeling right now, but I will have so much gratitude in my eyes as I tell them my memory of God’s hand steadily upon me: Keeping me healthy. Keeping me financially stable. Being the God of provision, through and through. The hope that remains, through this daunting chapter in my story, is the remarkable truth that God may take, but He does not take all. This I know. Life still abounds around me. Purpose still calls me out. Friendships are still continuing and calling my name. When this year concludes, mourning will know me all too well. But so will God. After all, the greatest relationships are those that commune about all things. God knows my name and the matters of my heart, too. Jesus is still interceding for me. And all of Heaven is still rooting for me. I will overcome this, too. One day at a time. Dear God, Help. In Jesus' Name. Amen. Scriptures to meditate on: Hebrews 7, 1 Timothy 2, Psalm 46, Psalm 91
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