There are days when my body parts fight for attention and today was one of them. On our brief drive to school several parts were talking to me… The knots in my neck were beginning to sing in unison with my temples, a warning sign that an intense tension headache might reveal itself if no actions were taken. And then the rheumatoid arthritis didn’t want to get left out apparently, so the ache in my left hand—dull but present—reminded me that maybe I should be afraid of what’s coming next. The right elbow, talking to me for days now, joined on in the chorus. And then, what?! The gut gurgle. The panic of any driver in school traffic is the early morning coffee-induced gut gurgle. NOT YOU, TOO, GUT.
What has the power to overcome the misery of multiple aching body parts PLUS school drop-off lanes with “THAT’S NOT HOW YOU MERGE, KAREN” and, oh boy, trust me that Karen was right in front of me dropping off her teen in a non-drop off lane. I said not-very-nice things to her because WHY KAREN? But the antidote to misery is what? It’s worship. It’s a turning of our eyes away from miserable things towards beautiful things, because when we start to notice, the blessings of this life are innumerable.
I plugged my iPhone into the car console and within seconds the joyous sounds of Father, Let Your Kingdom Come (from the Porter’s Gate Worship Project) were filling our car. I keep telling people about this song because it’s pure praise. Pure joy. Pure worship. Liv and I couldn’t help but move our bodies with joy—miserable body parts be damned.
As I navigated past Karen’s clueless SUV, said goodbye to my girl, and drove away from school, I listened to this song and watched the skies morph right in front of me. The fading silver moon, the fluffy clouds reflecting the rising sun, the dark clouds looming right behind me, our midwestern sky is always interesting. And I worshipped. I worshipped God who, as the song said, “makes all things new / in places we don’t choose.”
Last week was a rough week, and my thoughts right now very easily slide to a young family that gave birth to twins—one lived for a very short time due to Trisomy 13 and the other is growing steadily in the NICU after arriving a bit too early. It will never never never be okay to bury your child, and yet I’ve now watched several friends do just that. My head and heart have been getting lost in this reality, this very hard reality, since last Thursday and I’ve been clinging to God’s profound goodness and my faith in his word all the more since that day.
“Hallelu, hallelujah / Father, let Your kingdom come.”
My faith—our faith—is often so weak, but thank goodness it’s not our faith that saves us. If we belong to Christ, then it’s God who does this work. It’s God who is ushering in His kingdom, and we saints get to be a part of that. If we’re living by faith and not by sight, then we cling to his promises all the more in times of trouble. So what is real? What’s happening when one’s soul slips from this life into the next? If your hope is in Christ then fear no more, because you’re walking into the fullness of God’s kingdom—the amazing technicolor of a spiritual reality that you can’t see currently. We know that when we leave our bodies we’re at home with the Lord, and I truly believe I witnessed the most sacred of moments last week. It doesn’t stop the tears from hitting my eyes, and it surely will never stop the longing of a parent for her child. We’re here, short of vision, grasping for understanding and without the full ability to see spiritual things. But oh, someday, friends. Someday we, too, will walk into the full kingdom of God where there’s no more crying, no more longing, no more aching joints and broken bodies. Sweet reunion—face to face—with the God who made us awaits us and how marvelous that will be.
On a morning where the clouds are fighting the sun, I hold tight to the promises of God. His kingdom is being ushered in, even today, and I am a part of it. In Christ, I have hope of eternal rest and complete fullness. Though we mourn today, tomorrow will be only rejoicing.
