I took my nine-year-old daughter (and famous singer wanna-be) Maddie to a Sara Groves concert last Friday. It's the third time I've seen her in concert; I love her music and respect her message more each time. It's not even entertainment from the standpoint that it's not passive. It's almost like work. Sara makes me think and search and confront myself. After the concert I felt challenged, not entertained, but it's a worthwhile tradeoff. She sings about real life in a broken world, but the music teems with hope and promise. She writes most of her own lyrics, which have moved and sustained me during the most challenging times of my life. Case in point - Remember, Surrender from the All Right Here CD.
Remember, surrender. As a matter of fact, I do remember. I remember exactly where and when I surrendered - in a red chair in the middle of another sleepless night. Taunted by doctors' reports and dismal statistics. Afraid to quit fighting, afraid I would lose.
My youngest child was just six months old when I was diagnosed with a rare, usually fatal (90% of the time) liver disease. My future looked bleak at best. I was undergoing the only known medical treatment, a series of steroids with an immunosuppressant drug often used in chemotherapy. My head spun, my stomach churned, my hands trembled and I slept only about 10 hours a week. It was 3:00 am, and I was still awake. Bleary eyed and frustrated, I stumbled out of bed and shuffled down the hallway to the family room where I collapsed, exhausted and defeated, into my favorite red chair - and God's arms. Hopeless and scared, I cried my heart out. I told him that I wanted to live but that I couldn't fight anymore. The drugs were taking their toll and trying to raise four young kids, work part time and stay ahead of the mounting medical bills and laundry piles, all while trying to squelch my fears and those of my family and friends was more than I could handle. All the anger, fear and bewilderment of the last few months spilled out. I held nothing back. Remember surrender. Remember relief. Remember how tears rolled down both of your cheeks. As the warmth of a heavenly father came closing in.
After my crying fit, I laid my head against the arm of the chair and I gave it all to God. The length - and quality - of my life. My children's future with or without me. All the hopes and dreams I'd had for my life and theirs. A few minutes later, for the first time in months, my hands stopped trembling and I closed my eyes and slept... deeply and peacefully right there in the red chair. Remember surrender. Remember the peace. Remember how soundly you fell fast asleep. In the face of your troubles your future still shone like the morning sun.
I was fighting against the disease with all my strength but the whole time, God wasn't asking me to fight. He was asking me to do something much more difficult - to trust and to rest - in the middle of the battle. Not to take on the weight of the world. Not to grieve my losses - yet. Not to roll over and die. Not to be bitter and angry and ask, "Why me?" But only to trust. Remember surrender. Remember the rest. Remember that weight lifting off of your chest. And realizing that it's not up to you and it never was..."
That was five years ago and I'm still here. God has taught me so much about what my body and soul need to be healthy, including proper nutrition, exercise and plenty of rest. I have a wonderful doctor, who gives me hope and encouragement, which sometimes is all I need to get through another day with a good attitude. My life has changed a lot since the night in the red chair. My priorities are straight, and my relationships are rich. Now I spend my days caring for my family and my health. I've learned how to forgive, love, play and enjoy life. But maybe the most healing aspect of all of this has been God awakening dreams in me that I had long since buried, not the least of which is reaching out to other women through writing. Remember surrender. Remember that sound. Of all of those voices inside dying down. But one who speaks clearly of helping and healing you deep within.
Yes, I do remember the surrender. It was the sweetest decision I could have made, and the beginning of an incredible journey toward true healing and wholeness. So, let me encourage you in whatever you're struggling through. God will give you joy for sorrow and beauty for ashes. All He asks in return is that you trust Him and realize that it's not up to you... and it never was.
Remember, surrender. As a matter of fact, I do remember. I remember exactly where and when I surrendered - in a red chair in the middle of another sleepless night. Taunted by doctors' reports and dismal statistics. Afraid to quit fighting, afraid I would lose.
My youngest child was just six months old when I was diagnosed with a rare, usually fatal (90% of the time) liver disease. My future looked bleak at best. I was undergoing the only known medical treatment, a series of steroids with an immunosuppressant drug often used in chemotherapy. My head spun, my stomach churned, my hands trembled and I slept only about 10 hours a week. It was 3:00 am, and I was still awake. Bleary eyed and frustrated, I stumbled out of bed and shuffled down the hallway to the family room where I collapsed, exhausted and defeated, into my favorite red chair - and God's arms. Hopeless and scared, I cried my heart out. I told him that I wanted to live but that I couldn't fight anymore. The drugs were taking their toll and trying to raise four young kids, work part time and stay ahead of the mounting medical bills and laundry piles, all while trying to squelch my fears and those of my family and friends was more than I could handle. All the anger, fear and bewilderment of the last few months spilled out. I held nothing back. Remember surrender. Remember relief. Remember how tears rolled down both of your cheeks. As the warmth of a heavenly father came closing in.
After my crying fit, I laid my head against the arm of the chair and I gave it all to God. The length - and quality - of my life. My children's future with or without me. All the hopes and dreams I'd had for my life and theirs. A few minutes later, for the first time in months, my hands stopped trembling and I closed my eyes and slept... deeply and peacefully right there in the red chair. Remember surrender. Remember the peace. Remember how soundly you fell fast asleep. In the face of your troubles your future still shone like the morning sun.
I was fighting against the disease with all my strength but the whole time, God wasn't asking me to fight. He was asking me to do something much more difficult - to trust and to rest - in the middle of the battle. Not to take on the weight of the world. Not to grieve my losses - yet. Not to roll over and die. Not to be bitter and angry and ask, "Why me?" But only to trust. Remember surrender. Remember the rest. Remember that weight lifting off of your chest. And realizing that it's not up to you and it never was..."
That was five years ago and I'm still here. God has taught me so much about what my body and soul need to be healthy, including proper nutrition, exercise and plenty of rest. I have a wonderful doctor, who gives me hope and encouragement, which sometimes is all I need to get through another day with a good attitude. My life has changed a lot since the night in the red chair. My priorities are straight, and my relationships are rich. Now I spend my days caring for my family and my health. I've learned how to forgive, love, play and enjoy life. But maybe the most healing aspect of all of this has been God awakening dreams in me that I had long since buried, not the least of which is reaching out to other women through writing. Remember surrender. Remember that sound. Of all of those voices inside dying down. But one who speaks clearly of helping and healing you deep within.
Yes, I do remember the surrender. It was the sweetest decision I could have made, and the beginning of an incredible journey toward true healing and wholeness. So, let me encourage you in whatever you're struggling through. God will give you joy for sorrow and beauty for ashes. All He asks in return is that you trust Him and realize that it's not up to you... and it never was.
