Psalm 121:1-2 “I lift up my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.”
As we trudged through the lush green leafy trail that led to the mountain up ahead, I stopped on the small foot bridge to take a picture of the river that was winding through the valley. I looked up to see the dewy fog covering the ridge and breathed in the crisp morning air. It was Sunday morning and as we were hiking to the cross on top of the hill, I knew instinctively that the weekend getaway with other moms who had lost children had penetrated through yet another layer of the cocoon I had wrapped around myself throughout my journey of grief. Even though I was with these beautiful ladies, the Lord was calling me to Himself so He could undo some of the anguish and protective barrier I had cushioned around my heart so the world around me could be shut out. It was as if He was peeling me open to uncover the isolation I had surrounded myself in. He wanted me exposed and vulnerable so He could continue the delicate surgery only He could perform; it was incredibly painful and harsh, but the reality of the season was upon me. I realized this weekend I had lost my sense of community. I didn’t feel like I belonged here even with these other ladies I so identified with; in fact, I didn’t feel like I belonged anywhere. Looming up ahead was the anniversary of Elisha’s transition to his heavenly home, and as I anticipated with dread the four-year mark on the calendar that my beautiful son has been gone from the earth, it no longer seemed to hold the dark black emptiness from years gone by. Instead, it was replaced by an overwhelming fear, an anxious apprehension that I was forgetting the child that been so much a part of me for 22 years. Of course, I had hundreds of photographs and memories that would always be stored safely away in the substrata of my mind, but for a fleeting moment as I ascended the mountain, I could not remember our time together. I could not reach into the past and extract a single instant where I could see his face gazing into mine and so as I walked, I willed his image to come alive before me, but all that I could see were the still photographs that remained.
Philippians 3:20 says, “But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ, who, by the power that enables Him to bring everything under His control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like His glorious body.” This wasn’t the first time I have felt like a foreigner in a world I do not feel a part of. Jesus said His kingdom is “not of this world.” (John 18:36.) As a follower of Christ, there is nothing here on the earth that holds any hope for me, but I have always felt like I had a place and purpose here, that God would use me for His glory, to do the work of His kingdom for as long as I was alive. Since the death of my son, the longing I have for Heaven has been overwhelming, but even more than that, the things of this world no longer matter to me. I have come to a place in my life where all that truly matters is that I am a reflection of His character and my only desire is to be an image bearer of my Creator. How can I do that if I isolate myself from the world around me? How can I be the hands and feet of my Savior if all I want to do is run away and be near Him on the top of the mountain?
2 Corinthians 1:9 says “Indeed, we felt we had received the sentence of death. But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead.” I have come to the conclusion that the Lord does not want me to reach out to other people to find my comfort and my peace. The reality is that I do not belong here, this is not my home and these are not my people. While I am here, I will experience the trials and tragedy of this life, but my citizenship is in Heaven and the darker it becomes here, the more I understand that there is no hope apart from my relationship with the One who sees me, the only One who really knows me. These difficult and lonely days only help me to understand the trials of others and my suffering has equipped me to come alongside them and share the hope I have received from a tender and gentle Savior who is there at the foot of the cross on top of the mountain. Where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.
As we trudged through the lush green leafy trail that led to the mountain up ahead, I stopped on the small foot bridge to take a picture of the river that was winding through the valley. I looked up to see the dewy fog covering the ridge and breathed in the crisp morning air. It was Sunday morning and as we were hiking to the cross on top of the hill, I knew instinctively that the weekend getaway with other moms who had lost children had penetrated through yet another layer of the cocoon I had wrapped around myself throughout my journey of grief. Even though I was with these beautiful ladies, the Lord was calling me to Himself so He could undo some of the anguish and protective barrier I had cushioned around my heart so the world around me could be shut out. It was as if He was peeling me open to uncover the isolation I had surrounded myself in. He wanted me exposed and vulnerable so He could continue the delicate surgery only He could perform; it was incredibly painful and harsh, but the reality of the season was upon me. I realized this weekend I had lost my sense of community. I didn’t feel like I belonged here even with these other ladies I so identified with; in fact, I didn’t feel like I belonged anywhere. Looming up ahead was the anniversary of Elisha’s transition to his heavenly home, and as I anticipated with dread the four-year mark on the calendar that my beautiful son has been gone from the earth, it no longer seemed to hold the dark black emptiness from years gone by. Instead, it was replaced by an overwhelming fear, an anxious apprehension that I was forgetting the child that been so much a part of me for 22 years. Of course, I had hundreds of photographs and memories that would always be stored safely away in the substrata of my mind, but for a fleeting moment as I ascended the mountain, I could not remember our time together. I could not reach into the past and extract a single instant where I could see his face gazing into mine and so as I walked, I willed his image to come alive before me, but all that I could see were the still photographs that remained.
Philippians 3:20 says, “But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ, who, by the power that enables Him to bring everything under His control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like His glorious body.” This wasn’t the first time I have felt like a foreigner in a world I do not feel a part of. Jesus said His kingdom is “not of this world.” (John 18:36.) As a follower of Christ, there is nothing here on the earth that holds any hope for me, but I have always felt like I had a place and purpose here, that God would use me for His glory, to do the work of His kingdom for as long as I was alive. Since the death of my son, the longing I have for Heaven has been overwhelming, but even more than that, the things of this world no longer matter to me. I have come to a place in my life where all that truly matters is that I am a reflection of His character and my only desire is to be an image bearer of my Creator. How can I do that if I isolate myself from the world around me? How can I be the hands and feet of my Savior if all I want to do is run away and be near Him on the top of the mountain?
2 Corinthians 1:9 says “Indeed, we felt we had received the sentence of death. But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead.” I have come to the conclusion that the Lord does not want me to reach out to other people to find my comfort and my peace. The reality is that I do not belong here, this is not my home and these are not my people. While I am here, I will experience the trials and tragedy of this life, but my citizenship is in Heaven and the darker it becomes here, the more I understand that there is no hope apart from my relationship with the One who sees me, the only One who really knows me. These difficult and lonely days only help me to understand the trials of others and my suffering has equipped me to come alongside them and share the hope I have received from a tender and gentle Savior who is there at the foot of the cross on top of the mountain. Where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.
