Friday, March 16, 2012

Instruments In His Hands

Before I start writing I feel I need to tell you all something. I used to rarely ever cry. If, before, my feelings were hurt, I would get mad but I. Would. Not. Cry.

Now, I cry all the time. And not just because I miss Emmerson and Vivienne and because I sometimes become so incredibly pissed with how things turned out. But I cry over commercials, during worship at church, watching my husband and my daughter interact. I feel like a cry baby. Maybe I am making up for lost time?

With that being sad, I feel I can share with you what I wanted to today.

The other week I was reading a post by one of my favorite bloggers who also is a Baby Loss Mama. I cried as I read what she wrote. Not silent, beautiful tears streaming down my face like you see on beautiful actresses in the movies. I am an ugly crier. I CRIED! UGLY! I bawled. I had to step away from my computer to collect myself before I could finish reading her post.

I was an emotional mess because it was true what she wrote and because I felt those words were written and spoken just for me.

She was telling the story of her youngest daughter waking up in the middle of the night screaming. Not crying. Screaming! Angie went into her room and her daughter did not realize it. She stayed in there trying to console her. I want to share the rest in her words because, well . . . I cannot write as beautifully as she does and there is such a wonderful message in her words alone.

She was still scared. Still unaware of me.
Quietly, quietly, I started humming, “Hush little baby, don’t you cry…” It was just enough to make my throat vibrate. Too quiet for her to take notice, but she must have sensed something in her half-awake state, and she calmed a little. I started to reach over the crib but I didn’t want to wake her if she was going to go back to sleep. She didn’t even need to know I was here, just felt enough in my presence to know she wasn’t alone. I kept watching her though, and I noticed that although she was still upset, she wasn’t looking at the door. She knew that one of us would come in and get her, but she cried to the corner, so distraught that she didn’t lift her head.
And in the middle of the night, while the wind howled around Nashville and the rest of my babies slept, I wondered how many times I have done this.
I call Him, because I know His name.
And He answers, because He has always known mine.
I am lost in the wreckage, trying to get my bearings, and while I can’t even lift my head, He whispers throughout the madness…I am here, love. Rest.
I snuck in when you thought it was over. When you thought it was impossible. And while your back was turned and the world was upside-down, I came near to you. I have seen you wrestle with your pain, shout in anger, and kick the sides of this life until the bruises reminded you that you could even feel at all.
And somewhere, sometime…many in fact, I bowed beside you and sang. And when you thought you couldn’t get to me, I reminded you that I always, always come to you.
Hush little baby…

Those darn tears again!

Maybe, just maybe, those words were meant just for me. You know, God has a way of working through others.

We all are just instruments in His hands . . .


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