"He will continually follow you with His favours, and not let slip any opportunity to be gracious to you." ~Matthew Henry

I don’t know, at least in this season of my life, apart from the death of my husband, an ache greater than a homesickness for the eternal. It’s kind of a strange feeling, to be homesick for something you’re not really sure you know, but yet somewhere, imprinted in your soul, without your conscious awareness, you know.

I remarried a few weeks ago and spent almost 2 weeks traveling and enjoying the beauty of southern France. The culture and lifestyle, the conviviality of friend and family there mirrors a lot of my own Latin culture. There is a slow, mindful presence the French take to life. I believe Americans could learn a few things from consuming less and living more…but this isn’t a post about schooling a country I love (despite it’s love for consuming more and living less), it’s about carrying a hollow in the heart while wandering this broken but beautiful world.

I’d ask you, sweet friend, to bear with me if the next few posts (and the one before these) make you wonder if I’m slowly losing my mind. I’m not, at least, not that I know of–and certainly not that anyone’s reported to me. I feel a deep tension at the moment to ring a bell that’s yet unrung–one I can’t ring because it can only sound with the final note when the Lamb of God reappears.

It’s not mine to ring. And yet I feel it.

Perhaps, you do, too.

So back to marriage and remarriage. Back to death and resurrection. Back to lament and hope. I feel those things. And they’re beautiful and joyous and magnificent and grand. And they’re complicated and tumultuous and pain-searing and unraveling.

You’re probably wondering what I’m talking about at this point. I know, existing in the abstract doesn’t always work, but sometimes, it’s all there is because you can’t clearly define the tension you feel in a given situation. There are no clearly defined lines between what is beautiful and what is broken on this side of the New Creation. That’s the thing, that something beautiful here is also broken here at the same time. Have you ever thought about that? Wild, huh?

I had a girlfriend a few years back who walked her mother through breast cancer. My friend was also 9 months pregnant, expecting her second child when her sweet mother took a turn for the worse. Her momma quietly passed away the morning she went into labor and was delivered of a beautiful baby girl. I remember talking to her that night while she was still in the hospital. She was weeping sorrowfully for her mother, while cradling, with joy and wonder, her new baby girl. My friend became an orphan that day, with no living parents, and yet became a mother again. Can you be an orphan and mother? Can I be a wife and a widow?

Yes.
Maybe.
Why?
I don't know.
Maybe, no?
Perhaps, yes.

I’m just a few weeks into remarriage. And it’s so beautiful and it’s so hard. My late husband is in the small things, everywhere. And while I’ve since moved houses, bought new things, re-decorated new spaces, he is here. Memories of camping trips and family outings when we’re making room in the shed for my now husband’s things. Reminders of theatre trips and dinner dates when I move then husband's suits and dress shoes around in the closet to make space for now husband’s wardrobe. I don’t want my late husband here, but yet I want him here, because I know love reaches beyond the deep sleep of the Believer. I will see him again, with joy, but I see him now here too, with lament.

Some will tell me to find counseling. And yes, I do and am. I meet regularly with a small widows groups, too, because only they know deep shredding of Oneness like I know it. It really is an earth-permanent alteration. And yet, I’m in a new season of renewal and restoration now (I catch the irony of that every time) when I “need not fight in this battle” and only station myself and “stand and see the salvation of the Lord” on my behalf–”O Judah and Jerusalem. Do not fear or be dismayed.” (2 Chronicles 20:17)

So, Hebrew daughter, perhaps all we have to do is remember and trust. 

Remember how He took us out of Egypt. 
It happened.
Trust that He provides today's daily bread.
That happened, too.

Even in brokenness, even in death, even in despair, even when we don’t believe, even while we ache for former things (as harrowing as they were) all while rejoicing in the new.

Such a multitude of undoneness. 

But yet,

“Do not fear or be dismayed because of this great multitude, for the battle is not yours but God’s.” (2 Chronicles 20:15)

Rest on all sides is coming.
It's happening.

Hallelujah.
Hallelujah.
Hallelujah.