I Should've Said No

“I should’ve said no.”
As we walked into the sprawling, low-lit house, a sea of lovely and excited women of all ages clutching warm cups of tea, leaning close to each other for intimate conversation, these words nagged at the back of my head: “I should’ve said no.” From the beginning to the end of Kitt’s cancer journey, worship and large crowds were difficult for me - too emotional, too raw, like surgery without anesthesia. Self-consciously, I made my way to a corner, briefly greeting a few friends as I hurried to get to a safe spot. Music began. The room swayed with worshipping women, raising hands, kneeling on the floor, sharing snapshots of answered prayers and prayers in waiting. A new song began.

“You’re never gonna let, never gonna let me down.

Ohhh, you’re never gonna let, never gonna let me down.”

Sweet, sincere worshipping voices filled the room, yet my heart was cold. The lyrics smacked false, falling flat in the face of my grief. Jaded grumbles filled my head:

“Go ahead and sing your cute song, sweet ladies. This might ring true for these girls, these 'youngins' with shiny, happy faith who have never endured tragedy. But that’s not me. That used to be me, but no more.”

The chorus repeated endlessly, igniting the coals of my grief, clouding my eyes and brain with tears - tears of anger, disappointment, fatigue.

“I can’t bear to sing any longer, damnit!” I cussed under my breath.

My feet propelled me out the door into the dank, cold evening. Where should I go? I couldn’t leave officially since I had carpooled with some friends. Defeated, I made my way to a swing set nestled between a grove of pine trees. Leaning on a beam, the tears flowing honestly, I yelled at Jesus. “Why, Lord? Why him? Why now? Why so young? What are we supposed to do without him?” So many questions, rhetorical questions without expectation of a response. In the cool of the dark, quiet night, my tears began to wane, my sobbing slowed. I lifted my head to the sky peeking through two pine trees in front of me, noticing Orion, my favorite constellation. Just days before, Sam and I had spent time discussing the rhetorical questions that Job asks, as well as the piercing questions God asks in return.

Job 38
“Can you bind the chains of the Pleiades?
Can you loosen Orion’s belt?
Can you bring forth the constellations in their seasons
or lead out the Bear with its cubs?
Do you know the laws of the heavens?
Can you set up God’s dominion over the earth?

We were both struck by the inclusion of the constellation Orion in the ancient text of Job. Turns out Job was written approximately six centuries before Jesus was born. Anyway back to the story at hand: as Orion caught my eye, I immediately saw a vivid star shooting through Orion’s belt. As I marveled at this beautiful gift, one given seemingly just for me, I heard the still, small voice of the Lord say,

“I have come to bring you abundant life. You will have abundant life. You and the kids will have abundant life again.”

Sacred, redemptive words. After living such a fulfilling and rich life with Kevin, it’s so hard to imagine a life without him. Yet the Lord spoke to my deepest fear, reaching into the shadows of my soul: just because His plans for Kevin’s life on earth are complete, doesn’t mean the Lord doesn’t have more plans for us - for me and individually for Sam, Ben and Emma Grace.

Had a I said no, I would’ve never experienced this intimate moment with the Lord. He saw me. He wooed me. He spoke hope to me. He was “the lifter of my head,” (Psalm 3:3). I’m so thankful I said yes.