My Story, Her Story, His Story

April 24, 2008

At the recent conference I attended last weekend in Orlando, I took away many tidbits of truth and encouragement. One such nugget advised, “Learn to weave your message through the grid of your story.” Later I asked the speaker who offered these words how she grew in learning such an art. Unfortunately at the height of jet lag, I’ve now forgotten everything she shared!

I find it seems easy to offer one or the other—relating stories, or teaching truth. They each have their place, yet seem most powerful when woven together. Stories alone can be mere entertainment; Yet truth devoid of human experience is austere and will not often budge the heart. Yet, to tell your own story woven together by intersection with His Story… Well, that’s something that takes a lifetime to master. Here is a piece of my story—her story—His story.

April 24, 2002… The birthday of our first daughter, Hannah Kathryn Wallace.
I, her mommy, write this reflection in honor of her life.

No tears—this is what struck me when they handed me my precious first child. It felt only mildly concerning at first, but not fearful. For a brief moment, I gently stroked her pale face. It was mere seconds before they wisked her away from me. I didn’t know that was the last time I would get to hold her.

Many tears—this is what was obvious from my stained puffy eyes as I glanced into the mirror. A few hours after Hannah’s birth, I returned to my hospital room after visiting her in the NICU. What I saw staring back from my reflection took my breath away. It was not my face, but hers.

No tears—this had been a virtue in my life. Friends would have commonly described me as steady, unruffled, and flint-faced. I never told myself I wasn’t supposed to cry. Yet, some deeply-engrained sense of right told me it was simply better not to.

Many tears—this is the dam that burst forth in the weeks and months following her birth and death. A face-swelling, sorrowful, struggling, hopeful, hopeless, begging, bitter, angry, agitating, blessed well of tears. Nowadays, the well is not always freely flowing, but its mouth remains open.

No tears—this is what I often hear myself speaking to my tender-hearted Kathryn. Her excess sensitivity can sometimes drive me crazy. “Toughen up!” I want to tell her—“So you have a scratch on your knee? Get over it!” The four year old version of emotion sometimes feels messy, dramatic and annoying. Her well always seems to be flowing, and it gushes all over me.

Many tears—this is what we read of Jesus’s response in the face of Lazarus’s death. He didn’t just cry, He wept. Here are other times we find this word in the New Testament:
-Jesus’ fervent petitions to His Father to save Him from death.
-The father who begged Jesus to heal his demon-possessed son.
-The woman who wept as she washed Jesus’ feet with her tears.
-Paul’s passionate plea to the Ephesian church as he bids them a final farewell.
-Timothy’s longing to see his brother and mentor, Paul.

Here it is: In-your-face human emotion. God-approved, God-ordained, God-experienced-with-us emotion.

No tears—this is our future destiny. Well, none of the sorrowful kind, at least. “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” I recently considered afresh this oft-quoted phrase. It is perhaps the most intimate picture in all the Scriptures—the one where He touches my face.

Today—this age—is a day of tears…beautiful, gut-wrenching, overflowing. When I try to squelch the flow of sorrow and tears, so ceases the capacity for joy and longing. Longing for a restored, renewed creation. Longing that reminds me I’m not yet Home—a Home where my daughter already resides. Longing for the Person who touches my face.