There’s a song rising up

Have you ever had the experience of hearing a song for the first time and finding that it belongs to you? Have you ever had a song sing itself into your heart so that you’re almost word and note perfect after one hearing?

The last time this happened to me was when Rend Collective issued Sing it from the Shackles on January 30th, 2020. I felt heard and validated after years of feeling abandoned by God.

Almost fifteen months later, I know I am not abandoned, but it’s head knowledge. Sometimes we know that something is true, it is a fact, but every feeling says the opposite. Most things can’t be separated: I know that the sky is blue with every part of me. But sometimes we can know something is true but feel quite different about it. I know that I am not abandoned. God does not abandon people. But I feel as though God has left me and is ignoring me. My head knowledge is that God is Love, always and forever, but my heart doesn’t feel it at the moment.

In my last blog, I talked about waiting and how lonely it is. It’s five years since we started trying for a second child. We wanted to have three children, close together in age. Now we know how lucky we are to have one, and we long for a second.

The truth is that I can’t pray for another child any more. Every night I say the words, it’s part of our regular bedtime prayer with K. But recently I’ve been beginning to think it would be more honest to leave it out, because I don’t really believe it will happen.

A year ago I was going through my sixth consecutive miscarriage, but my hope had been renewed. The fact that we conceived in the middle of a worldwide pandemic, when my health wasn’t great, renewed my belief that it would happen for us, that it was just a case of keeping on moving forward. Every day, every hour, every step is a step closer to the fulfillment of God’s promise.

But that was a year ago, and I don’t feel like that any more.

We have all been exhausted by this pandemic. I’m a long way from being the only person who was totally worn out before it even started.

I don’t have hope any more.

I can’t pray for myself at the moment. After five years it feels as though I am shouting into the wilderness. For a long time, I was able to suspend the emotions and pray anyway, because feelings are not facts. But it’s been so long that that’s not true any more.

About three years ago there was a 24 hour prayer event at our church. One of the activities there was a board of Bible verses. We were encouraged to write down a verse that came into our minds, and to take away a verse that spoke to us. The verse I took is Luke 1:45:

And blessed is she who believes that there would be a fulfillment of the things that were spoken to her from the Lord.

For a long time, that verse gave me strength every day. I still have that pink Post-it note. The glue is full of dust and cat hair, so it’s held onto our fridge with a magnet now. And I see it every day, many times a day, and it isn’t inspiring or strengthening or more, it’s just there.

I’ve been saying for a long time that I didn’t have the strength to carry on any more. There have been many days when I’ve laid my desire for another child at God’s feet and said, “Please, God. But not my will, your will be done. But please.” I can’t do it any more.

But this isn’t about me, and it never has been. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that it isn’t just about me, or even just about my family. This is, and always has been, about God. God is infinite and eternal, omnipotent and everlasting. God loves each of us with a parent’s love, and that includes not only me, my husband and child, but every one of our babies, too.

Our God is a parent whose child died.

My emotions don’t make a difference to God. God is bigger than anything to do with humans.

I feel abandoned, but I know I am not. I’m not giving up on God. I’m still praying for other people (please get in touch if you need prayer for any reason).

God made us a promise a long time ago, and the promise hasn’t changed. God hasn’t changed. I am the one who has changed.

There is a song rising up, from the chains, from the shackles, from the pit. For five years I have been singing to God, through darkness and loneliness, sadness and wilderness. I can’t sing any more. I can’t keep going in my own strength, because my strength has run out.

But every morning, I get out of bed. I get dressed, eat breakfast, care for my child before and after school. I cook meals and make bread. I should probably dust more often than I do, but that’s always true, not just now.

I am running on empty, but I’m still running. Where is my help coming from?

I sang to and for God for five years and my voice has run out, but the singing hasn’t stopped. I still hear that people are inspired by my story, that my daily thankfulness helps them, that they are encouraged by my words.

Maybe now I am a song. Maybe it’s God who is singing.