Tuesday, November 20, 2007

My dearest God,

Your joy comes as others share their joy. Friends and members inquired about my journey away. My pilgrimage to the desert mountain. They wanted to know "how it was."

But more than that, they wanted to share my joy at the homecoming of my daughter. The shock, the uplift in their voices, the sound of bubbling joy as they had considered what it would mean to me were expressed. Two women who have known since the beginning, remembered the anguish and sorrow, the blackness of the moment, the true brokenness. I could feel their love coming out of the phone into my heart. They walked with me in the dark days. They supported my broken heart. They wept for me, my daughter and family. They held me.

The darkest days of my whole life. I do recall them. I remember how hard it was to breathe, to take a breath and live, to put one foot in front of the other, to get up in the morning, to lay in bed at night with a heart in pieces. The pleading prayers. A mother, broken.

But I also bring to mind the grace, your grace and mercy that entered my being. The arms that lifted me up, gave me reason to breathe. I remember the countless acts of love that came my way. I remember hope penetrating my heart, not hope in some false promise, but hope that comes from the deepest place in the divine soul. I remember the words of Jesus, "I will be with you always, even to the end." I hung on to every word like a mountain climber holds on to the mountain rocks having fell over the edge.

But the one that stands out the most was the visitation. As I lay weeping in the back of my station wagon, a friend driving me to a restaurant nearby the home of my daughter, the time when the knife would drop, severing the relationship completely, the darkest abyss I had ever known, you came to me. Mothers from the Bible, Isaiah, the psalmist, angelic choirs, Mary, the mother of Jesus, other men and women whom I did not know, but knew me came to me, whispering their encouraging words, sharing their own experiences, their hope, their love. One by one they appeared to me for nearly two hours.

When I awakened minutes before our arrival at the restaurant, I sat up, crawled over the seat. When they looked at me, the strangest looks appeared on their faces. "What happened to you? Your face, it's radiant. Something happened to you as you were sleeping." My daughter and friend asked. I rambled, sharing the visits of at least 40 people, more with the choirs. They could hardly believe what they were hearing. The intimate stories of people who shared deeply from their own hearts touched my friend and daughter. They were convinced that I had seen your face, that you had anointed my heart and soul, bringing healing salve, the way to healing.

That was 14 long years ago. Fourteen years. Fourteen years I have held on to your hand, like a little child walking in an unfamiliar place. Fourteen years I learned to trust you and others. Fourteen years I allowed my being to be changed, transformed, again and again. Fourteen years of spiritual food that revived me. Fourteen years walking in the deserted desert. Fourteen years finding my way home. Fourteen years surrendering. Fourteen years praying. Fourteen years.

There are no promises of what will happen on Thanksgiving. No plan. No expectations. I have already found my joy. Just knowing my three daughters will all be together in one place. My grandchildren meeting each other for the first time. My family together is enough for me, abundantly enough.

Oh how you have held me.
Oh how you have poured out
your love upon me.
Oh how you listened
to my pleading prayers.
Oh how you have
opened dark doors
and closed them.
Oh how you have
spoken hope to me.
Oh how you have held me.
Oh how you have sent
messengers of hope to me.
Oh how you have
lifted the darkness
and brought light.
Oh how you have
healed me.
Oh how you have held me.
Blessed One,
Holy God,
Healer of my Soul.
My praise rises like incense.
My heart will always be yours.

Love, Andrea