on writing the story, and singing in the wilderness.
One day it just came, it came fast and it came with a rhythm. This story—I’ve been carrying it all along, carrying it since the day I was born.
And all along, He knew how it would weave into me, fibres of truth. He knew the words I would write someday, some tomorrow. His thumbprint was right there underneath my fingertips, creating those silent words that come out of nowhere. So, I write when it doesn’t seem important. I write when my heart is full and heavy with grief, and I write when there are no words. But they come, somehow, even when my chest is heaving and that familiar salt brims on my lids, tired of overflowing.
Somedays, I write songs, but the ones without sheet music. It’s the song I belt out in the wilderness, that place where I can’t seem to hear His voice. It’s the song that propels me forward, when I stumble through grief and pain and what the future holds.
It’s the song that’s been written on my heart, carved really, and it’s making me tell stories.
We all have stories, we carry them with us.
I’m carrying mine right now, in a 25 pound child, limp like a well loved rag doll. I’m carrying her story—the one where she’s running and clapping and spinning weakness into strength. She was already written on my heart, when I sprouted those same wheat coloured curls. She was already there, tucked inside me before I could form words. Imagine that.
He knew me before He knit me together in my mother’s womb, and now I am the womb that knit her. I’m the vessel that carried her while she was being crafted together, piece by precious piece.
But where did it go wrong? I rarely ask Him, but it’s usually in the wild, open places, on silent days. When the genetic code deleted those God given genes, why wasn’t I aware? I didn’t even know I was carrying her, didn’t know she was writing her story, and singing the melody that would reverberate from the depths of her mama.
In the dark night, I’ve traced the curls around my daughter’s ears, pulled them out until they fuzzed, and I’ve whispered:
I’m writing this story, my love, I’m writing it for us, but it’s not just about you, nor is it just about me. There is an ancient song here, and we are called to sing it. It sounds like the one Jesus sang in the desert place and in the shadows of the garden. It’s holy and it’s simple, and yet we’ll keep on singing it until we see His face.
I don’t know how the story will continue, and I try not to think about it’s end. I get that hard lump, the clenching in my throat when I think about the earthly facts. So, instead of letting those Helvetica typed facts and footnotes rip my hope into pieces, I let the Creator himself take that bottle of glue, and I let Him in. I say: cover me with your goodness, put me back together, and create in me a renewed heart, no longer battle weary, no longer tired.
And yet, I know His song will continue, even if the story becomes too painful.
I pray, as I kiss her goodnight:
Teach me where the song begins and the sorrow ends. Teach me when to rest and when to pick up that sword, the one I swear is far too heavy for me. May I lick my lips when they are parched, may the Blood in me never run dry, may I create life even when the dirt is mounded high.
Dig me out, and make me write this story.
The one where you win, no matter what.
The one that makes me sing.