What Matters Most
musings on the mundane and magnificent from a Christian perspective
There’s something so poignant about the first sounds of birdsong in spring. Their clear notes are almost piercing at first, louder after a long absence. It makes you realize that you’ve missed the sweet sound, that the passing winter was silent, void of the music now filling the air.
I wonder if Mary Magdalene’s Easter morning walk to the garden was accompanied by birdsong. Did nature sense something big was happening?
I love imaging this scene in John 20 and picturing myself in Mary’s shoes. What was that morning like? How far did she have to walk? Was it light by the time she got to the garden? What did she see – her 360-degree view of the scene that changed everything?
I like to imagine that she heard birdsong as she entered the garden. Maybe the smell of wet earth rose to meet her. Maybe the morning mist was starting to clear as she neared the tomb.
I don’t know the specifics of that Easter morning, but I do know Jesus cast seven demons out of her (Mark 16:9 and Luke 8:2). I know He was her only hope. If He didn’t rise from the dead, then there would be nothing to keep her from going back to her old life, no power to maintain her freedom. So, she would not leave Jesus. She could not. He was her only hope – and while that hope may have been dwindling in His followers, it was not extinguished.
With an ember of hope flickering in her eyes and undying love in her heart, she went to the tomb, to the last place she had seen Him. She went to minister to Him one last time. She could not bear to be separated from Him, even from His dead body. She had to see it through to the end. Her devotion demanded it.
And devotion she had in spades. Let’s continue our deep dive into John 20 and consider the ways in which Mary’s devotion to Jesus was expressed.
It came out of nowhere. A moment in between sight-seeing and movie-watching, after morning walks but before the turkey was carved, a brief moment last week where all I could think of was you – the daughter I miscarried.
It was a busy Thanksgiving week, busy in a good way. We did a lot. We saw a lot in our nation’s capital. And we enjoyed being together. We had so many memorable moments, but one moment in particular stands out to me – the moment where I couldn’t help but think of you.
I was sitting on the sofa, and almost everyone had left the room. We were getting ready to go somewhere or do something; I can’t quite remember what. I just remember gazing out of the window, looking at the trees, and having such a strong impression of you. Just you. Just the fact that you once existed. And the fact that you’re not here with us now, enjoying this full week with your relatives. Nothing specific triggered this feeling. It was just a quick, quiet moment where my thoughts drifted to you.
This doesn’t happen as often as it once did, but it still happens. Sometimes, I just can’t help but think of you. Sometimes, the feeling of your absence is palpable. My arms ache to hold you. I long to feel your head on my shoulder and stroke your hair. And I want so badly to share you with this family I love so much.
The Family You Never Met
Your aunt and uncle are both such naturals when it comes to children. They would have opened their lives to you, opened their home to you, opened their hearts to you and swallowed you up in love.
Your cousins would have adored you! I think they would have relished the role of your protector, your teacher, someone to show you the ropes. And I can think of no better role models than them. They are each so gifted in many ways, but they all share a sense of compassion, a sweetness that gives breath to all their other virtues. I would have loved for you to be the recipient of their sweet love.
Your grandma believed in you, waited for you along with me, even prayed you into existence. I had planned on having her in the delivery room with me because I wanted you and her to meet as soon as possible. I wanted the two of you to make the most of all the time you had together. And I know you would have. Her love would have been a staple in your life, her presence and constant encouragement a rock you could have relied on without fail.
They would’ve loved to love you.
And I would’ve loved to have seen it.
Looking Back
I was just missing you and imagining, for a brief moment, what it would have been like if you were here.
But you aren’t. Our memories don’t include you. Our family photos are void of your face. And our hearts miss the love we would have shared with you. And while I don’t think about this all the time, sometimes I can’t help it, even though it’s been a few years.
It’s not healthy to think along these lines every day, and it’s equally not healthy to never think about it at all. It’s therapeutic for me to remember you, to remember that you existed, even just briefly. I would rather remember than forget it ever happened, even if that means remembering and feeling the pain also.
Because remembering you also means remembering love – the love I felt for you instantly, a love I still have. I love the memory of you. And that’s why I think of you from time to time, like I did last week surrounded by the family you never knew. We would’ve loved to share you with your dad’s family as well. The people we love who would’ve loved you are many.
Looking Ahead
The one consolation in all this hit me in the most unexpected place. Since we were all together in Virginia, we took the short drive down to Arlington National Cemetery. Under the cover of fall leaves, with the backdrop of the D. C. skyline, we passed name after name, until we came to one – the name of your grandfather who died five years before you did.
Maybe there is a family member you’ve met. Maybe when I think of you, I can imagine the two of you together – the father I’ll always remember and the daughter I can’t forget.
It’s like waking up and realizing you’ve been asleep at the wheel – for miles. You find yourself on a one-way road, a road you’re only now beginning to see clearly. Maybe you missed a turn somewhere. Maybe, if you’d been paying attention, you’d be headed in a different direction, on a different road, in a different car even.
Since you can’t do a U-turn on a one-way road, all you can do now is drive. The only way is forward. The turns not taken are irrelevant now. Now, all that matters is making the rest of the journey count.
So, you blink, rub the sleep from your eyes, and grip the wheel with renewed purpose. Since the past is in your rearview mirror – and you can’t alter it – the right road is now the one you’re on, the one that’s leading you forward. The right destination is waiting for you ahead – so you drive. You learn the lessons you need to learn, you grow, and you keep going. Grief mingles with hope. Regret gives way to resolve. And peace settles in place of despair. And you drive on.
You drive on – through storms, under stars, past detours and distractions, in the gentle waking light of a new day.
And you drive on.
Lord, I give You everything I would do differently if I could do it all over again, and I give You the fact that I can’t. I can’t do it all over again. So, I give You what is, what isn’t, and what will never be. I give You what is to come. Thank You that hope is a reality not limited by my circumstances or deterred by my choices. The hope I have in You is an anchor for my soul – sure, firm, immovable. (Hebrews 6:19)
So, I choose to move forward in hope. I choose to live for You, not an ideal set of circumstances. I choose You. And I’ll choose you again and again.
“My choice is you, God, first and only…. Now you’ve got my feet on the life path, all radiant from the shining of your face. Ever since you took my hand, I’m on the right way.” Psalm 16:5, 11 MSG
You are my hope. Thank you for the resolute, renewing, life-giving hope that is only found in You. May I overflow with hope.
“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”
Romans 15:13 NIV
My view from here is a wistful one. Through the window of my home office, I see my neighbor walk by with her toddler and her newborn in the stroller. The little girl is practically prancing down the street in her princess dress. It’s not Halloween anymore, and it doesn’t look like they’re having a birthday party. It’s just Thursday. And I guess that’s as good a reason as any to go full princess mode.
The whole thing made me smile as much as it made me cry. To see young mothers with their young daughters can’t help but grip my heart. I was never a young mother. I’ll never have a daughter. I’ll never have what I always wanted, and scenes like this are a vivid reminder of that loss.
I always wanted to be that young mother taking her kids outside for a mid-morning walk. I wanted to have a house full of kids, but I don’t. Instead, I have a household where the number of pets outweighs the number of children (two fur babies, one stepson).
But I take another look…
My view outside the home, my view inside the home – wherever I look I see evidence of God’s faithfulness, His goodness, His sovereign hand guiding me every step of the way. There’s so much I do have: a husband who loves me and is committed to me, a child in my home to love, friends, health, resources. I have things to look forward to. I have hope.
My view from home is not what I thought it would be, and I deal with the grief as it ebbs and flows. But regardless of what the view looks like, this is my home. This is my household. I choose to be thankful for all I do have and to steward it well.
So I pray…
“Regardless of what I have, regardless of what I don’t have, regardless of the circumstances and emotions, You are Lord, and You are good. You are worthy of my unwavering trust and undying devotion. I give all of me – the mess, the sadness, the things that I wish were different, the things that don’t come easily for me, the things I’m thankful for, the potential in me – I give it all freely to You. I’m Yours, Lord.
In the gap between what I always wanted and what I actually have, between hopeful expectation and bittersweet reality, I find You. And You give me the healing that is only found in You.”
That healing enables me to be surrounded by scenes of happy mothers and babies – like the one I witnessed today – but not be overcome by them. So, the next time my neighbors go for a walk, whether as princesses or fairies or superheroes, I can smile through my tears. I can rest in the knowledge that my view from home is something God sees, too. I am living my story, not somebody else’s, and He is with me as it unfolds.
As I look at my life, as I view my home, I look through the viewfinder of faith and see God, and that is enough for me.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
Psalm 34:18 NIV
