On The Back of a Bald Eagle
Last week, I sat in a church I hadn't been to in a while. I'm returning to a familiar place because so much around me now is unfamiliar and unsettled. We stood and began to sing. I felt wiggly and uncomfortable. The chorus's words rang loud—a song about the holiness of God—an undeniable concept in my book. As soon as the next song began to play, my heart clenched. Nothing in the world can access our emotional core with such swiftness and power as music. Music can transport us back in time, motivate and inspire us, and touch us in places that no other form of frequency can.
"All my life, you have been faithful. All my life, you have been so, so good. For every breath that I am able, I will sing of the goodness of God."
Every time this song comes on, I am reminded of a woman we know who lost her husband tragically. It wasn't long after her loss that she posted this song along with some reflections on her recent loss. I vividly remember my thoughts as I read her post. I remember wondering how on earth she could so boldly believe those words to be true in the midst of a tragedy. I wondered if I would respond this way, not if but inevitably when I find myself in a season of loss, uncertainty, and grief. I can never hear this song without thinking of my friend and her faith.
Yesterday was no exception. I could recognize the song from the first couple of notes. My mind wandered to my friend, back to six years ago when she declared that she would sing of His goodness, even in the midst of something she would have never chosen. The sound of my daughter belting these words at the top of her lungs in the car flashed before my eyes. A little girl not yet tainted by the world sings those words in a pure, resolved way. And then I was thrust into the present moment, facing the reality of the season I am in. I couldn't sing the words. Not because I don't want to believe them with every fiber of my being but because I have been holding on to so much that it all came flooding out at that moment. As the words of that song sang over me, perhaps more had caught up to me than I even knew. The tragic loss of my friend's husband, her faith in the midst of that, the fact that this world is not as it should be, and me, standing there feeling alone in an auditorium of a thousand, carrying a pain that no matter how much people enter into in the most beautiful ways, it is a pain all of my own.
I spent three full days with a counselor in August of this year. They call these sorts of things intensives. I can confirm that much time spent unpacking your story, trying to make sense of it, and finding a path forward to heal is, in fact, intense. I say that as somebody who is quite comfortable sitting with hard things for as long as it takes to find healing. As far back as I can remember, engaging in the broken parts of life, playing sad songs, and looking twenty layers past the surface doesn't scare me as it does help me to understand that it isn't as it should be here. Still, we are working towards a place where all things will be restored. Revelation 21:4 paints us a picture of the prize that is to come. "And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away."
There are parts of my story I would have never asked for or wished for anyone to experience. As my counselor arrived at a couple of those places, we bookmarked them and returned to some on the third day. She offered a modality of therapy called EMDR, which stands for eye movement desensitization and reprocessing. I'm unsure how the whole thing works, and I go into these things, for better or worse, a little apprehensive. Oh, me, of little faith. I went along, though, for two reasons. One, I have heard first-hand stories of how well it has worked for some friends. And two, I was desperate. Desperate times call for desperate measures, or in this case, proven measures. Either way, why not?
There are several ways to engage in this, but the one that worked for me was a process where I held a little buzzer in each hand. The buzzers would alternate vibrating in each hand, a method called bilateral stimulation. From there, I was asked to engage with a particular memory, one of them being what is referred to as a big T trauma. I was guided back to the memory as it happened and then asked to remove myself from being inside the memory to a place where I was viewing it from a distance. She asked what the vision was. The first thing that popped into my head was me floating on the wings of an eagle, as far above and away from that moment as I could possibly be. The rest is hard to explain, exactly how it works anyway, but I can say with certainty that it did.
I don't know how that exact picture of me being on the back of an eagle popped into my mind, but it did. One guess is that I have always been in awe of bald eagles. Where I am from, a small town in Southern Oregon, bald eagles are a common sighting. I have always been fascinated by their beauty. Maybe it is the stark contrast between their black bodies and bright white heads. Perhaps it's their size—they can be quite large, and their wingspan can be upwards of eight feet long. Maybe it's the way they predominantly soar through the air, making the act of flying seem effortless. Perhaps it's the way that they're working in tandem with the current of the air to gain altitude as they point the tips of their wings upward to a nearly vertical position and glide as if it is effortless. Sure, they could spend all of their energy frantically flapping their wings to carry their massive bodies through the air, or they could fly a little higher, working with the natural law of the wind and not against it.
You have likely heard these words even if you don't read the Bible. "But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint". (Isaiah 40:31)
Maybe my long-standing love for these birds and what they represent is the reason why I got this vision. Maybe I long for a life viewed from 10,000 feet, soaring and gliding through the air with relative ease. In the exercise of EMDR, looking at an event from far above allowed me to see something that has long haunted me in a completely different way. Without even knowing it, I was frantically flapping my wings, working against the wind, instead of getting to a place where I point my wings to the sky and glide. Isaiah gifted us a word picture in this verse that we all long for. The wind at our backs on a long walk. The place where we drop our muddied boots at the door after crossing the threshold of our homes. A warm bed. A restful night of sleep. Renewed strength as the dawn breaks.
I am writing this letter exactly one month out from having a miscarriage. I'm sitting in the same chair I sat in a month ago, looking at the same scene in my backyard; only the trees are bare now. This may be more personal than you would ever wish to get, dear reader, but nobody really prepares you for the first time you have your period after having a miscarriage (sorry men, this is a fact of life). It is a reminder that your body is still doing what it is supposed to do. It is also a reminder that not long ago, though it likely still did what it had to, it was never supposed to be this way. It was quiet in my house a month ago, and it is quiet here today, save the birds that are still chirping and the gunshots I hear in the distance being shot on the private property just beyond our fence line, target practicing for dusk when the deer will begin to stir. Those sounds play outside while my favorite instrumental music is on inside. The sun is shining today—it's quite a textbook-perfect November day. My faithful companion Rizzo, my Australian shepherd, is on the couch in my eyesight, ears pointed to the sky as if to believe something exciting is about to happen. In a few short minutes, he will be snoozing, content as can be.
I wish I could tell you all that has happened in the last thirty days but now is not the time. I'm not sure I'm far enough removed from all of it to do it justice. I'm still flapping my wings in search of a current where I can soar and glide. I can say with certainty that it has been the most brutal thirty-day stretch of my life. I can also say that likely some of the most holy and ordained moments have happened, too. There's no explanation as to how our hardest days become our most holy unless there is a God who has gone before us and is not surprised in the least bit. The path has already been cleared, even the ones we would never wish to take. A table of communion has been set—sustenance of bread and wine prepared. Body and blood given to us, broken and bled, consecrated and taken. To remember and to go forth with the ultimate sacrifice in mind. To live out our days in times of want and plenty.
I think again of our friend who lost her husband tragically and how she spoke about the words of that song. "All my life, you have been faithful. All my life, you have been so, so good. With every breath that I am able, I will sing of the goodness of God." I hear my daughter's crackly, innocent voice belting those words at the top of her lungs. I snap to the reality of the present moment. I draw from my friend's unwavering belief and my daughter's still pure faith. I think about the great cloud of witnesses that have come before us and who are all around us. I picture an eagle gliding through the air with ease. It doesn't change what's happening, but it does change my vantage point. Things look different from 10,000 feet. And for now, for today, that's enough.
I grieve with you, but not as one who has no hope. He will hold you fast. Isaiah 26:3 “You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you because he trusts in you.” Trust in His promises.
Beautiful words. He is faithful through it all.
Love you friend.