He Lives to Wipe Away My Tears

I know that my Redeemer lives.

What comfort this sweet sentence gives!

He lives, he lives, who once was dead.

He lives, my everliving Head.

That's why I attend church in the first place.

Not because my parents' taught me to go,

not because that's where my friends and family are.

I go because I know who Jesus is, and what He expects of me.

He lives to bless me with his love.

He lives to plead for me above.

He lives my hungry soul to feed.

He lives to bless in time of need.

I have felt His blessings so many times in my life.

Big huge blessings, that were almost hard to fathom.

Small, little blessings that provided help when I needed it -

like friends coming out into the foyer to help me with James.

He lives to grant me rich supply.

He lives to guide me with his eye.

He lives to comfort me when faint.

He lives to hear my soul's complaint.

He hears it all. He sees it all.

He sees the scars left from

James' fingernails digging into my arms,

the bruises on my arms and legs from

his kicks and his punches

(and that was just during Sacrament Meeting).

He lives to silence all my fears.

He lives to wipe away my tears.

He lives to calm my troubled heart.

He lives all blessings to impart.

He is the only one who truly can

wipe away my tears.

I deal with it the best that I can -

we all do - but sometimes,

I just can't help but cry

(even if it does become a public

display of our family's inner turmoil).

He lives, my kind, wise heav'nly Friend.

He lives and loves me to the end.

He lives, and while he lives, I'll sing.

He lives, my Prophet, Priest, and King.

I don't know how I would make

it through any given day,

without His friendship, His encouragement,

His support, and His love.

He lives and grants me daily breath.

He lives, and I shall conquer death.

He lives my mansion to prepare.

He lives to bring me safely there.

Someday this will all be worth it!

Someday the pains will be righted,

the disabilities that cripple the soul

will be smoothed out, and we will find peace!

He lives! All glory to his name!

He lives, my Savior, still the same.

Oh, sweet the joy this sentence gives:

"I know that my Redeemer lives!"

When the day is done,

when the crisis has ended,

when the chips have landed where they will,

that's when eternity comes into view,

at least for a moment, and I can see clearly

what is important, and what is not.

He lives! All glory to his name!

He lives, my Savior, still the same.

Oh, sweet the joy this sentence gives:

"I know that my Redeemer lives!"

Knowing that, I can manage another day,

can endure another trial,

can walk a little longer, and try a little harder.

***********************

Sunday.

Ward Conference.

Erik spoke, but I heard none of it.

I was standing in the hall waiting for James to come out of the bathroom.

He never came out, because he never went in, though he told me that is where he was going.

Turns out, he took a drink, and walked back in the chapel, just as Jalen Andrew and I went out to find him.

His morning walk to church, didn't get his contentious inklings out.

True, he rode the rest of the way to church, without hitting anyone else,

but then he saved that for the quiet, reverent atmosphere of the chapel.

Punching, kicking - Joseph and Christine got the brunt of it this time - no particular reason that it was them, it just was.

How did he get out of my arm's reach anyway?

All the other kids were somehow between he and I.

He had to be moved away from them.

They didn't deserve to be hurt in church.

Do you know how many kicks and punches can be given out, as a mother tries to drag a resistant 7 year old across the laps of his siblings?

A lot.

My turn.

"You're such an idiot, Mom!"

Punch, punch, punch.

Dig the fingernails into my hand (doesn't matter that they were just cut last night, whatever is left of those nails still burns under my skin).

Punch, punch, punch.

When did such a skinny little kid, get to be so strong?

Scratch the nails down my arm,

and then swing a punch at Christine.

Punch, punch, punch, and dig in the nails once more, then try to bite.

We got up and walked out - we? - no, I got up and walked out,

carrying my hymnbook in one hand, trying to hold his heavy, struggling body with my other arm.

I'm pretty sure it looked like I was dragging him.

Maybe I was, but I sure wasn't trying to.

Only 3 pews from the door, but it feels like a much longer walk.

I have no idea if Jalen Andrew is calling after me,

or if Erik's eyes are watching us as we leave,

I hear only the soft but firm words, "You are such an idiot, Mom!"

and can feel my flesh burning from his nails.

Angels.

Angels came to the rescue to sit with him.

Seeing angels always makes me cry.

The tears sting, but not as much as my arms.

I regain composure, at least for the moment.

I listen to the soft sound of Erik's voice,

I try to hear what he is saying, but I can't.

Then.

It is my turn.

I get to sing - sing about my Savior, whom I love.

Not my best intro for a song,

I'm feeling a little shaken up,

but that's okay, my performance doesn't have to be perfect,

my only objective anyway is to bring the spirit in.

I hope people can still feel the spirit.

I'll recover.

I can get through this.

He lives to silence all my fears.

I can't even begin to name all the fears that I have had since I have become a mother.

To name just one,

how will he or I make it through today?

He lives to wipe away my tears.

Never mind today, how will I make it through this song?

The tears began, but wouldn't stop.

No, I didn't forget the words.

No, I didn't get nervous.

No, I didn't lose my place.

No, it's not hard standing up in front of everyone and singing.

It is hard sitting in the front of the chapel, where everyone can see what my son is doing.

Seeing him, but not understanding why.

Stop tears, stop!

But they don't stop.

They boil over from somewhere deep inside.

Christine stands holding Jalen Andrew, watching horror struck as her mother cries a very private pain in a very public place.

"Give me my baby," my arms scream out to her, "give me something to hold - someone who loves me."

I hold him tight, but the tears still flow.

Then I feel warmth, as Erik steps up next to me, his arm around me,

his calming voice singing softly in my ear, singing the words that I cannot sing.

I chime in when I can, my voice still cutting out as the tears continue to roll.

Christine enters again, this time with James.

Seeing his big eyes, taking in the situation, and trying to understand what he has done,

somehow pulls me back.

Erik sits down with Jalen Andrew,

and I finish verse #4, singing mostly to James.

I'm not quiet about the struggles our family goes through,

but still it is embarrassing to show everyone in the ward, all at the same time.

This Sunday was not different than any other Sunday,

except that I don't usually have to get up and sing afterwards.

Then.

Amid one person's struggle,

God creates a miracle of some kind.

So many people saying that they were touched deeply by what they witnessed.

Can't even begin to count the number of hugs and hands that reached out to hold mine as I passed through the halls.

But it was their eyes - the look in their eyes - that captured me.

What was it that they saw?

Love, I guess.

Most didn't see the struggle that had transpired in our family's pew,

but they got to witness the aftermath,

the support and love that we feel for each other.

We'll manage somehow.

We'll make it to eternity one day at a time.

Most of it, won't be pretty, as we muddle through,

trying to understand, trying to repair things that we didn't break,

trying to love when that love gets sucked out of the room,

trying . . .

trying . . .

We'll keep on trying.

*And thank you for the angels who held my hand, caught my eye, hugged me close, and cried with me.