Cornerstone

I think I've written before that worship (well, the singing part of church) is often hard. It's standing in a room full of people and fighting with my emotions.

There's pride - people are watching me; they're looking to see how I respond (nah, they're worshipping God and that's what I'm supposed to be doing too).

There's control - losing control to sadness is frusterating even if only because it means my mascara is now running on the one day I actually bothered to wear it...and for so many other reasons too. I don't want to be that person all the time. 

There's judgement - those people raising their hands, nodding their heads, clapping - they don't know what it's like to really suffer. Yeah, it's there. It's ugly and it's there.

There's exhaustion - it takes energy to stay composed, but it also takes energy to give in. To go to the darkest corners of your heart and let go of control, let go of pride or shame or fear, and just be real with God.  

Why is it always in public? Perhaps I need to work on making space to privately explode...but who wants to pencil in "grieve" on their calendar? 

There's one song that really does it. It's a beautiful one: full of truth and hope.  "Cornerstone." It's one of my favorites and I dread it. We sing it often at church and once or twice I've managed to get through it with just a few tears. But this week, like so many times before, it really got me. 

The chorus, 

"Christ alone; cornerstone

Weak made strong; in the Saviour's love

Through the storm, He is Lord

Lord of all"

means so many things. Weakness. If you understand the nature of Annabelle's disease, I'm sure you'll see one connection - what made her weak in this world, was wiped away in death. She has been made perfect and strong in His love, in His arms. There's the connection to my own weakness, powerlessness, sadness.  And He has been with us through the storm. The storm didn't end. There wasn't a rainbow (no, Corey is not a silver lining - he is his own beautiful story). The storm raged and wrecked us and lingers still, but Christ is here in the midst. 

But this week it struck me in an entirely new way and I'm not sure I even know how I feel. 

The final verse, 

"When He shall come with trumpet sound,

Oh, may I then in Him be found;

Dressed in His righteousness alone,

Faultless stand before the throne."

is the part where everyone gets really excited - this is the hope of all creation. This is the promise of the living God who came and died and rose and will return. But I stood there, weeping. My baby girl has been there. She's gone before me. She has stood before the throne of God, been made whole, worshipped in His very presence. And here I am. Sad. And weak. 

I usually try to qualify my writing (is that the expression I'm looking for?) - send out a little hint to readers that I'm fine, no need to worry, just letting you know it's real...and I am "fine." I've got a zillion blessings and I know it. But sometimes it's dark. And in the midst of the storm, He is Lord. Not just before. Not just after when everything smells clean and new and nice. Not even just at the eye when you can breathe for a moment.

 I need that reminder because it is far too easy to go from Sunday to Sunday grasping to control everything and wondering why I'm wrecked by a song.