He Still Weeps

The sun was casting a sideways glance across the sky this morning.  Long rays of hope spread out like fiery fingers through the dense clouds that hovered low.  I wrapped my arms around my boys before sending them off to school, looked at them with intention and purpose, spoke my love over them and covered them in prayer.  Those parents, how their arms must ache for their precious children today.

This past Friday, while the cries of innocent children echoed through an elementary school miles away, I sat in the sanctuary of my baby girl’s preschool and listened to the sweet voices of four year olds, raised in perfect adoration for a baby who was to be born in a manger and become the Savior of the world.  The music was eclipsed by their childlike faith as they sang “Oh come let us adore Him…Oh come let us adore Him…Oh come let us adore Him! Christ the Lord!” There was such hope in the singing.

How do we who are believers, chosen to know the Divine Truth, reconcile the goodness of God with His providence?  The answer to that question is woven throughout scripture, from the beginning of the story to the end that is yet to come. Surely our human minds were never meant to fully grasp such a divine concept, but God gives us His Word so that we can take comfort in what we do know.  We know that “Jesus wept” John 11:35.  When the stench of sin and decay enshrouded his friend Lazarus, and the death of a fallen world filled up the tomb, Jesus wept.  He loved Martha and Mary, and their brother Lazarus. He wept with compassion for the grief of the two sisters, he wept for His friend Lazarus, and He wept for us all, each of us born into this life bound for the grave. Spurgeon, the great pastor, once said when preaching on this passage, that “A Jesus who never wept could never wipe away my tears”. We cannot forget the great mercy of our Savior, that in our suffering He does not forsake us, but that He wipes our every tear, he knows our humanity because He lived and died as one of us.

“Tears did not drown the Savior’s hope in God.  He lived. He triumphed, notwithstanding all His sorrow. And because He lives, we shall live also.  He says, ‘Be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.’  Though our Hero had to weep in the fight, yet He was not beaten.  He came, He wept, He conquered.” C.H. Spurgeon sermon #2091

I think of St. Stephen, the first martyr.  He saw “heaven open and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.” Acts7:56.  As he was beaten, his body crushed beneath the weight of the heavy stones, he knelt in the glorious presence of the Son of Man, and finally, scripture says, he fell asleep, at peace with his Lord and also with those who had killed him. What a perfect picture of the mercy of God, that he would give Stephen this vision into the heavens, that he would see Jesus at the right hand of the Father, and that He would then be Stephen’s strength in the time of greatest human weakness.  What if those children in that classroom in Connecticut heard not the sound of the gunshots, but instead heard the choirs of angels singing the eternal song of hope?  Perhaps like Stephen, it was the face of Jesus they saw at their time of greatest suffering, standing in the gap between earthly death and life eternal, welcoming their precious souls into the heavenly kingdom.

My husband dropped our boys off at their elementary school this morning, and from the clouds of grief came a ray of hope, as a rainbow arched perfectly across the sky and covered the school. The promise of God’s divine mercy, of everlasting hope, of Emmanuel.

The Perfect Mess

Her blond hair clung in sweaty strands against her forehead as the tears spilled from her eyes, leaving red stained cheeks and the sign of a bruised heart.  My patience had worn thin and I’d sent her to time out.  One minute for each year of age, isn’t that the rule of thumb?  Four minutes must have seemed like an eternity to the child who rarely misbehaves, to the sensitive child who wears her feelings on her sleeve, leaving them exposed and vulnerable to the sharp tongue I wield too often.    

We were running late, she was tired and crabby, and I was feeling anxious and overwhelmed.  Boxes of Christmas ornaments were strewn about my house, waiting to adorn a tree that was still only half lit.  Dishes were piled high in the sink, remnants of the morning’s breakfast still scattered on the kitchen counter.  Legos covered the floor, just waiting to pierce a bare foot.  I stood in the midst of it all, thinking that I still hadn’t bought the first Christmas present or addressed the first card.  Her defiance had weighed heavy at the top of it all, and I had collapsed easily, my shattered nerves adding to the mess.  She trudged slowly up the stairs to her room.  I needed the time out more than she did.

I gave up hope of making it anywhere on time, choosing instead to sit in the stillness of His presence and let Him speak His truth into my wild heart.  He reminded me that my frustrations weren’t born of an unadorned Christmas tree, a messy kitchen, or even a child misbehaving.  I had collapsed because I was heavy with sin, bearing the weight of outward appearances and the fear of not measuring up.  I had been reading too many status updates and not enough scripture.  I had been running too many miles but had gotten out of the spiritual race.  I was looking to the world’s standards to define me, instead of looking to Him for my sense of self worth.

The frustrations drained right out of me as I sank deeper into the comfort of His presence, and I confessed my sin and received His grace.  I called my daughter to come downstairs and she fell into my arms, choking out sobs of “I’m sorry”.  I held her close, and and there He was – right in the midst of my mess, making it beautiful and perfect in His sight, refining it for His glory and my greater good, redeeming it all by His very blood.