This is a difficult time of year for me. The world starts to smell different around March. Things develop a heaviness, a staleness. Water turns brackish around me. Things darken. There is rot. It is my soul, you see, as if my body goes through a reverse awakening of sorts. “Oh, yeah,” says my heart to my stomach. “The season approacheth. This is when your only daughter died. This is your great declination time. Enjoy.” Inner me is snarky. This time always coincides with Easter, adding insult to injury. “Great,” I normally say to myself. “I can’t even appreciate the most joyous time of the year, The Resurrection. I am too miserable, in too much pain, and far too pathetic.” Yet, something has been drawing me out of the dark recesses of the corners lately. It’s a phenomenon whose origin I can only speculate upon. Time? That adage is rubbish. Time does not heal all wounds. Family? As much as I love them, really, truly love them in an almost painfully intense way, even my people don’t have this much power. Maybe the grandchildren do, but I digress. Outer me is snarky, too. Age? There is something to be said about wisdom and the straight up fear that surrounds knowledge of one’s own mortality on the back side of 50. Yet, the years are less of an inspiration and more of a thief, it seems. There’s only one thing that has this power. Jesus. I know. I know. I don’t talk straight out religion very often, despite appearing in the religion section. There are more knowledgeable writers in this very periodical who can quote the verses and give the meanings like human commentaries. But maybe it would be good to hear the praise of the depraved, the downtrodden, the one who feels the least deserving of all. Maybe that’s you, too.
When I was planning my 16-year-old daughter’s memorial service, I was asked to provide the funeral home with 45 minutes’ worth of exit music. You read that correctly. When a pretty, incoming Jackrabbit mascot dies suddenly from a previously unknown heart defect, it shakes a lot of trees. When the memorial planners found out FISD was closing school for the afternoon, they suggested we move the service to a place that would hold a crowd, a 5,000-person crowd, that is. The pastors at Sunnyvale First Baptist reached out immediately. They wanted to help us. I don’t recall much about that day. It’s fuzzy. I do remember the food. The church opened an upstairs section for all the local restaurants that asked to provide food. It was akin to a mall food court. Italian over in the far corner. Mexican front and center. Sandwiches in the middle. I was taken privately to the sanctuary to see the setup. The sight of the flowers was overwhelming. My co-workers were there, staking their claim to an entire section, all dressed in white. They said they represented the angels that took my daughter home. Anyway, back to the topic at hand, the music. I have mascara on and must be somewhere soon. Music is a far safer topic. It takes lots of time for 5,000 people to exit a funeral, especially one for a child. Everyone wants to hug the parents, hug the siblings. Everyone wants to linger at the closed casket, staring into the lovely eyes on a massive portrait of a beautiful girl. I struggled with the music. Cousins chimed in. Grandparents had favorite recommendations. I felt my list was pretty spot on, a fusion of traditional gospel, quirky songs she loved, and lyrics that could touch the coldest heart. But there was one song I couldn’t find. My girl had gone to camp with some cousins outside of her own church. She loved the experience. Said it was life changing. Kept telling me about this one song. So, I made more calls. Sweet Rosemary Pope saved the day. “I know exactly the song you’re talking about, Aunt Dina. It’s called Rescue. It’s by Desperation Band.” The chorus goes, “I need you Jesus. To come to my rescue. Where else can I go. There’s no other name by. Which I am saved. Capture me with grace. I will follow you.” The end of the song fades away with these words, repeatedly: This world has nothing for me – I will follow you. Quick, right now, stop reading and listen to this song. Consider it research.
About a year or so ago, my husband and I switched churches. That’s too simple of a statement. We completely changed religions. Oddly, we both looked at each other one day and, like a first class rom-com, stated out loud, “There has to be something else.” That something else has changed my life, rocked my world. That something else has filled the darkened corners with light. That something else has eased out much of the rot, adding a blanket of green moss over the brackish water. I can see past the wreckage of my heart. Nothing was erased. But, the sharp edges have been encased in velvet. Grief is a ball that never gets smaller. Joy is a circle that you can dramatically expand. Sure, the grief ball will bump up against the edge of the joy circle from time to time, causing excruciating pain. But something else will give you added layers of protection. Jesus is something else. By the time you read this, April 12th will have come and gone, the 15th year reliving the worst day of my life. Yet, this year, Jesus came to my rescue. Because, this life has nothing for me. I decided to follow Him. Happy belated Easter. Happy spring. Happy everything.
- Log in or Subscribe to post comments.