It was a moonless night. Our group shuffled through patches of crusted snow, trying not to slide on the slipshod shoveled walkways up to the front door. The row of tiny apartments located on the sadder side of town stood unfriendly and unwelcoming. There was no warm glow coming from inside; no festive Christmas wreath or light-up reindeer stood on the front lawn. They just looked empty, barren, bereft. But there was still a reason to sing.
The season brought warmth, birds, and flowers, but I barely noticed the beauty and life around me. I was caught in a funk darker than the bleakest winter day. Physically, I had been sick with an infection I couldn’t shake. Spiritually, the enemy was assailing me through the bitter words of another. Emotionally, I was in turmoil because of the failing health of my husband.
When I was about 13 years old, I attended a worship service that included a powerful song about the love of God. As the words of the song echoed through the church, I suddenly had the clear realization that God could have chosen to let humanity go and never have tried to redeem them.
Several decades ago at a gathering of Christian believers in Ethiopia, hundreds of believers were challenged to send someone from among them to reach the unreached tribes in their country with the Gospel; tribes where nobody else had been able to go for generations.
The calming scent of cedar filled the room as I slowly lifted the heavy lid of the wooden chest. It had likely been more than ten years since I last looked inside. I drew out the familiar pink and white baby blanket resting on top and held it close, imagining how my dear mum had wrapped me up countless times in its pillowy folds and nestled me in her arms.
Late into the night over cups of tea going cold, I heard her story and surveyed the landscape of her life from the outside listening in. My mind reeled and my heart ached as her words landed in my ears. There were problems I couldn’t fix; solutions I couldn’t provide. She was in a desert season — and I couldn’t change that.