Wilderness Wednesdays Conclude

Today is the last Wilderness Wednesday post. God prompted me in the summer to write about the wilderness journey, and I did so. And now He's prompting me to stop. There are dozens - even hundreds - of little "God things" that you won't get to read about (at least in this forum) that continued to happen along the journey, but I think this is a fitting stopping point. What I share with you today happened at the conclusion of the fourth month of knowing Isaac. And it encompasses a tangible (told you I like the tangible!) moment when God held my soul. I love it.

This particular day was a Saturday in June. The one Saturday this year when I had to work...because it was a registration day. About lunch time, I sneaked into my office and checked Isaac's blog. He hadn't updated in days. But that day, he wrote about friends of his who had lost a baby. My heart broke for them...for him. And heartbreak immediately gave way to anger - almost rage.

This was the second time in a month he'd blogged about going through a difficulty that I'd already walked through in my life. WHY didn't he want me there to walk the road with him? Why was God being so cruel? I sat in my office and sobbed for the rest of the work day. My co-workers took over for me and didn't ask me to meet with another student the rest of the day.

The work day concluded and I declared I could not go home. To face my house would be too daunting, even though I had mostly worked past the days of feeling suffocated by my own home. Retail therapy sounded good, so after a stern self-lecture about the day’s shopping allowance, I went to the gas station, fueled the car, treated myself to a 44 ounce iced tea, and headed out of town for some shopping.

The shopping was a failure, mostly because I really wasn't in the mood for it as much as I thought. But while I was in the city, I went to see a friend of mine. It was an abnormally hot and humid summer day and upon entering his apartment, I learned his air conditioning did not work. Lovely.

We sat on opposite ends of his couch and watched Rush Hour on TV. About halfway through the movie, for no apparent reason, a new meltdown surfaced and spilled over. Not only was it an inexplicable cry, it wasn’t pretty. Giant tears didn’t just roll…they projected. Snot ran everywhere. Hiccupping and gasping began. I was used to such displays in my desert. He just looked over from his end of the couch with wide eyes…what in the world!?

He reached for me, but I waved him away. I gasped, “I’m…okay….it will…will…pass.” He shook his head, scooted down the long couch, and scooped me up in his arms. I pushed away again, but he grabbed me tightly and began rocking me softly back and forth – just like he would rock a baby.

I wailed. I’m sure the people outside, in the parking lot, just beyond the open screen door wondered what was happening. He wisely didn’t admonish me to pipe down for their benefit. I wiped away snot and tears while hiccupping and shaking ferociously. Each time I tried to push back from him, he just pulled me closer and rocked. He never said a word. Just kept his arms around me and rocked me.

When the wailing gave way to just the occasional gasp and shudder, he finally allowed me to sit back. In the sweltering apartment, we were both drenched with sweat and tears, and I mentally chided myself for not bringing the box of Kleenex with me. (And trust me – if there was a box of that to be found in his apartment, it would take an earth mover, and there was no time. Thank goodness for sleeves.)

When I could talk again, he looked me in the eye and said, “Tell me what’s wrong.” I cringed. He didn’t want to know. That’s thirteen kinds of rude. I said, “I am not sure you want to hear this.” He grasped my arms and looked right at me. “Tell me.”

So I did. The whole story tumbled out in a somewhat incoherent fashion, and never once did he even wince as I declared my love for Isaac and expressed my confusion, hurt, and loss over his absence in my life.

He never did say a word. I didn’t realize that until hours later. He never offered a piece of advice. He never said a disparaging remark. He never made a move. He didn’t even wipe away the tears or the sweat (which by that point were so co-mingled, they were impossible to distinguish).

That day, great healing took place in simply being held. In being allowed to cry. In being unadvised. In just being.

The next day I opened my freezer door to get some ice for my tea and glanced at the pictures secured to the front with random coffee magnets. I see those pictures dozens of times a day and had stopped actually seeing them. But that day I did see.

One picture is a close-up of a small granite heart etched with the words, “This is what it means to be held.” I had it made about ten months earlier to be placed on my nephew’s grave on his 21st birthday. He was stillborn when I was ten, and on that significant birthday, I wanted to leave something to remind anyone who might pass by his marker that despite great grief – God holds His children. Kirk’s death was one of the first times I experienced God holding me in a real way.

And as I dipped ice into my glass and looked at the picture on the freezer door, I knew that what I’d experienced the day before was God’s powerful arms holding me. He sent an instrument of mercy to my aid. That is what it means to be held.