We've been proclaiming a song in church the last few weeks. Its an anthem, meant to be pulled from the shadows of the heart into the reverberations of the walls, the air, the soul.
And it grabs me in a unique way.
Each time these lines bellow from my soul, the richness of their words soften like molten chocolate, rich and thick. A new license of my soul for honesty, truth, and whole.
When I sing these songs, I sing not of my first salvation, of original sinful life cleansed by his sacrifice. But of the salvation that brings me forward each day. Of the thankfulness for the continuing saving of my life, for the Glorious Light.
This song comes to our church during the Season of Lent. Where we dwell on the cross, of the one moment of atonement for all sins behind and forward to come. It's a beautiful chorus, with whispers and wails throughout the sanctuary, remembering that Day. Good Friday. Resurrections Sunday.
But for me, it comes at a time of reflection. Of thinking of the deaths of April. Of last April. Of watching the truly sacred unravel at and around my brother's bedside. Watching him go from life to death, to death to life, eternal again. Of watching "the Church" of family, of children, of cousins, of aunts, walk through that front door. Each with their own sadness, mingling with tears. Each with years of that trampled over their souls before. And yet, each clinging to hope.
The difference at Jesus, of faith in a resurrected Christ, is a God who lives in death, and eternity is secure in heaven.
So to each person who gathered around Blake's bedside ~ my grandma holding back tears, asking why its him at 34 rather than her at 90... Mike shaking his hand, eye contact so personal and real, speaking no words but the soul that last day, the Friday... Melissa snuggled close in a quiet afternoon nap, living the hell and moment of heaven bedside and spooned between... ~ For each person, there was a hopeful hurt. A sadness of earth, of death, of finality. Yet each came because death is not the final grave.
Because Jesus brought each out of the darkness before, he would during those days/weeks, and he will for forever. Because of HOPE. Because the cross only a slice of the story, the death of Blake was punch in the gut, but the God of the sunset has, will, and forevermore, burst through to prevail.
I sing this song in church, thinking of the days and weeks and months following the death of my mom, and really the distancing of my dad and the jarring jousting of his choices.
And I think of the depths of the weeping of those first months and year. The screams, the wails, the anger, the tearing. The bitterness of salty tears over my savaged soul, sweeping downward with the desperate loss of my mentor, my best friend, my mom.
And I sing this song now:
Thank you Jesus, you have saved my life
For those moments. For those days and years where Jesus literally saved my life in the minutes of praying my unfiltered heart, the car drives where alone was all I knew, the court steps was where I was left, the times I just needed her wisdom on the phone, and the airport rides I needed on the other end.
And I think of the Jesus who saved my life there. Through the hope of his plan, through the clinging to his promises, to the NEED for HIM to be FAITHFUL.
I think of Jesus for saving my life through the Church he gave me. People who did not forget, who did not forsake. For His people, like Linda Roersma, Sandy Lawson, Kelsey Holloway, Sheree Hasty, Kate Vasey, Heidi Kuperus, and the Church he gave me to live with (Angela, Jenelle, & Marilyn). Those who accepted my tears, sat with my longings, and wrestled with me in the angst and anger and desertion. They are those who pushed forward for me with hope, steeled for for purpose and trust in God's plan, and sang welcome over my tired and beaten soul.
They are who God put in to help save my life those days and years. Who he gave me to keep leaning forward, to keep learning to forgive, to unravel and dissect and create boundaries, and to Trust in Him.
For in those years, Jesus also saved my soul.
From despair. From wallow. From stuck. From death.
He saved my soul, for Him, with his promise of hope.
So yes, thank you Jesus for the blood of that one day, that Friday moment and that Sunday sunrise morning.
But oh, dear Jesus, thank you moreso still, for saving my soul. From death, despair, and dwelling in bitterness or emptiness. For you save my soul from me, from the dark void, and from death in hell itself.
Thank you Jesus, you have saved my soul:
Brought my out of darkness in to glorious light!
Hope.
