a crown of beauty instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.
Isaiah 61
Early one morning in June, God penned this scripture across my heart. I opened blinded eyes to casted sun beams peeking through shutters and it was the first thought as I awoke. On the clean slate of a new day, God etched His tender mercy within because He knew something I did not. He knew my father would exhale one last time.
In the midst of confusion and grief, God brought about the certainty of His control and comfort. For the first time, I had a deep sense of God as My Shepherd, leading me through this dark valley of solitude. And unlike Paul who boasts of running the race set before him, I simply walked. One step at a time. With darkness hovering around, foot dug deep into dirt and steadied on rocks fallen from mountain tops above.
Image Credit: Kristy Prince + Light Textures
In The Treasury of David, Charles Spurgeon wrote:
“To walk indicates the steady advance of a soul which knows its road, knows its end, resolves to follow the path, feels quite safe, and is therefore perfectly calm and composed.”
God promised to bring about gladness instead of mourning. I walk through the valley guided by my Good Shepherd and see a mere shadow of death. Where shadows lurk opaque and obscure, there is lucid Light shown down from above. He is there walking beside me.
This melancholy summer is nearing its end and I reminisce.
Camping with friends triggered memories of summers spent in Yosemite, swimming in Mirror Lake and hiking along steep trails where waterfall mist sprinkles my face. I walked behind Dad who always led the way.
Sending Isabella to Basketball camp triggered sounds of loud claps and cheering while she dribbled by, “You can do it, Bella! Make the shot!” I sat beside Dad who always showed up.
Sitting on patio deck with lifetime friends triggered moments of celebrating new life to come, boasting stories of when babies were little, seeing how far they’ve come. I lived life with Dad whose laughter still lingers when I look at my girls.
Joyous summer moments quietly subdued under the umbrella of melancholy. “Dad should be here.”
Bifurcating the solitude of downcast thoughts, God reminds me after mourning comes dancing, after weeping comes joy, after winter comes spring.
So I walk on.
