I woke up this morning with a deep yearning inside of me.
The last two weekends have been filled with home improvement projects. Mudding, texturing, and painting. Replacing windows. Ordering new doors. Taping off and pulling it all back up again. Imperfections covered. Beauty renewed.
In less than twelve weeks, we will pack up everything we own and give this house over to new residents. Moving across the ocean. Embarking on an adventure. Just me and him.
But it was the freshly painted back bedroom that hit hard. Josh did all the dirty work. I did the touchups. And then I sat down on the plastic covering the floor and took it all in. The room that I always thought would be the nursery was now sitting empty. Expecting change. This is where the rocking chair would go. And that is where the crib would be.
We’re moving to a tropical island – living a reality that so many dream of. But in the process, we’re leaving behind a house that has seen 90% of our marriage. Nine of our ten years as Mr. and Mrs.
How many years have I sat here in this very chair, imagining a ragamuffin mophead sneaking down the stairs and peeking around the corner? I’m so excited to move… but I’m going to grieve the loss of leaving this house behind. And with it, the years of expectation and hope. I realized for the first time this morning that when we leave this behind, some other mother’s children will be filling the emptiness I’ve longed to be filled. They will provide the laughter and toys strewn about the back yard. They will provide the dirty, grubby handprints on the sliding glass door. The sound of feet running upstairs, crumbs on the floor, sippy cups in the sink…
We’ve had so much life in this house. And dreamed of so much life. And prayed for healing of so much life.
My heart was breaking anew. And without outrightly saying (or writing) the words, I yearned for an acknowledgement of the pain somewhere deep inside of me. With worship music filling the house at a higher volume than normal, and pen poised to paper, I thought of Hagar. A woman running from a disastrous scenario with the woman she worked for (Sarah) and her husband (Abraham). She was obedient to Sarah’s plan to provide Abraham with a child. And then she was punished for it. Despised because of it. So Hagar fled. After some time, when she grew tired of running, and the anger of her plight was likely coupled with a steady stream of hot tears on her face, the Angel of the LORD came to her. He spent time with her. Talked with her. She let her guard down. Then she called the name of the LORD Who spoke to her, You-Are-the-God-Who-Sees (Genesis 16:13).
Thank You LORD that through a deep desire for an acknowledgement of my pain … You-Are-the-God-Who-Sees. And at the same time I write this, two words echo in my head: Jehovah Rapha.
Sure that was the name of God assigned to His provision, I was surprised to realize I was mistaken.
As I whisper “You-Are-the-God-Who-Sees”, You look straight into my eyes and whisper back “I AM the LORD Who heals”.
Thou God seest me. He sees me. He sees me as much as if there were nobody else in the world for Him to look at. ‘There is comfort for you, you praying ones, that God sees you. That is enough: if you cannot speak, He sees you.’ (Charles Spurgeon)
I yearned for the acknowledgement of my pain. His eyes met mine. And peace quickly calmed the emotional turmoil.
When you look to Me and whisper My Name, you break free and receive my help… (Jesus Calling, March 16th).
Come and rest here
Come and lay your burden down
Come and rest here
There is refuge for you now.
You’ll find His peace
And know You’re not alone anymore
He is near
You’ll find His healing
Your heart isn’t shattered anymore
He is here
Breathe in
Breathe out
You will
You will find Him here
I will rest in You
You will find Him
You will find Him here
You will find Him
You will find Him here
– Here (Kari Jobe)