“Dancing with Jesus”
I’m not sure how to write.
Being funny or sarcastic or sad about stupid stuff, just seems.
A week ago today. I sat across from her. 453 questions in, she asks.
“You write a blog?”
(And it’s so super annoying when people ask questions that they already know the answer to, but so it goes with divorce).
Yes. I write a blog.
And it’s public? And you are planning to write a book?
And. And. And.
Someday. One day.
My bucket list.
And what is your book about?
And I’m writing, pencil to paper. It calms me to scribble and write “the sky is blue. the sky is blue. the sky is blue.”
I’m suprised I don’t accidentally answer out loud, “The sky is blue.”
I mean, it usually is, but if I had blurted that out, it would’ve been a little weird.
But I circle and I write and I answer, honestly.
I don’t know. God hasn’t told me yet.
And your blog? What’s it about it?
Hmmm….thinking you’ve read it, but OK, I’ll play along.
It’s my journey of faith.
And this week, writing is hard, because my story is your story and their story and we have been in this story–-a super hard—wake up from the bad dream—story, together.
(For my out of town readers, the little town of Fremont has been shaken to the core after a car crash took the lives of 3 young boys). I only knew one. Most knew all.
But this is not the story of Fremont. Or these boys. Or their fanilies.
As I told her. Omaha-lady-lawyer with 453 questions. I only blog my story.
My journey of faith.
And this week.
My journey got sadder.
And my faith stronger.
I woke up to middle of the night texts. Missed in my sleep. Which I find amazing since I rarely sleep. I scroll top to bottom and bottom to top and there.
The kids are sleeping with me and they stir. I panicked. I had to get there. I had to see her and hold her and, yes the kids stir and I blurt it—
Right out, no filter.
Jackson has gone to be with Jesus!!! He is with Jesus!! Mommy has to go.
And my neighbor came and my neighbors always come and I make a mental note to pick up the pieces of such a poor parenting moment.
I have to get there.
To my friend.
My friend who has faithfully walked on this journey through divorce. She, the first to hear my news. My news that felt like a death.
Until there was actually a death.
She listened and offered grace and in her home and on her couch and across from countless coffee cups, she offered me a place.
Although she drinks real coffee.
And I drink sugar. With a little chocolate. Heated up.
But whatever, I usually say, “Hold the whip cream.”
No I don’t. It’s dairy. Calcium, vitamin D? Why would anyone hold the whip cream?
My friend who has hidden the Word in her heart and it’s on her tongue and she does her part.
In the body of Christ.
Arms that hold.
She listens and prays and lets me talk for days.
About ridiculous things and about ridiculous people and stupid things—
And stupid people. 🙂
And one day I told her this story. A mortifingly (is that a word)and embarrasing and humbling story, but one that wouldl make you laugh.
And we did laugh. A lot.
And she has sown in tears.
And my friend got to hear that story. The one you will have to read in my book.
The one I haven’t written, am not currently writing and will not be about you.
Unless you’re part of my story. 🙂
She k nows my story. She knows.
And she has been my friend when being my friend wasn’t easy.
Being my Fremont friend, was not.
But she stayed. And now I will stay.
And her part? Her part in the body? Just this.
As her friend, I am useless and helpless and when I walk away from our time together, I realize, still, that I’m an utter failure, for once again, it’s she that has just comforted me. She, in her loss, in her faithfulness, in her steadfast belief that God is good.
In her steadfast belief in His faithfulness, she shines a light—
And He is glorified.
And we are comforted.
And only He knew that the friend she was teaching me to be—
Would, in His goodness—
Be the friend that she now needs.
But I need help.
As my dear friend Ann would say (you know the Ann that I don’t actually know, but I’m so totally sure that we would be BFF’s along with my Fremont friend), yes as Ann would say.
“I’ve never been here before.”
Have never been here before.
God in heaven! Help us to be the friend that she has been to us; the friend that she now needs.
So you might already know this. Emma Claire talks a lot.
Like, really alot. Alot.
And she asks about the sadness; the fallen faces and the quiet voices.
Answering is hard, but I choose the joy.
I say, “Emma Claire! It’s amazing. Jackson got to see Jesus today! Jackson is in glory dancing with Jesus!”
She replied simply, “You don’t know that.” (With a fair amount of attitude that makes me want to get on my knees this very instant in preparation for the teen years).
And stooping to the behavior of a 4 year old, offended at her comment and with the best amount of my own little “attitude” said, “Well, I know that he’s with Jesus.”
“Yeah. But you don’t know he’s dancing.”
I said, “You’re right, Emma Claire (remembering that perhaps my theology was a little off about the dancing), but I bet he’s running.”
And I hear the pit pit patter of the drums. The ones from the start of the service. And I hear the drum beat, still. The rhythm of our hearts.
The rhythm of of our days.
And in glory.