I work at Highland Park Presbyterian Church. Everything here, however, is my personal opinion and is not read or approved before it is posted. Opinions, conclusions, and other information expressed here do not necessarily reflect the views of Highland Park Pres. 

 Four months ago, when I resigned from my previous church, I had no idea the journey I was being prepared for. I couldn’t have. I had a plan. It was “solid”.  It couldn’t fail. . .and the Titanic was unsinkable.

My plan failed, and it failed badly. I’m not saying it was like the Hindenburg because no one died, but if the Hindenburg was a small scale personal “failure”. . . Two months ago, there was no other way out of the struggle except through it, I had no idea how long it would last, where the road would go, or how I would ever emerge on the other side in one piece, much less alive.

But I did.

I once heard John Piper say, “God will wreck you to get you where He wants you.” I gave a silent “You know that’s right” when I heard it. I thought I knew. . .but I didn’t have a clue.

I didn’t have a clue that so many people in my life cared so deeply for me and my heart.
I didn’t have a clue that to learn from struggle, you have to embrace it.
I didn’t have a clue that life keeps going.
I didn’t have a clue that grief was positive and strong, not cowardly or weak.

But I do.
You do.
It does.
And it is.

Sunday, I sat in the imposing sanctuary of my new church, not yet officially official, but feeling right at home. The choir began its introit in the balcony, and their a Capella harmonies washed over the whole place, echoing off the stone floors and rich, wood ceilings. For the first Sunday in a very, very long time I was overcome with complete peace — feeling no need to justify the tears that spilled out. I could sit in the reality of my heart, where it had been and where it was in that moment, and be completely free to feel as deeply as I needed to. I searched the recesses of my mind to find the words to ascribe to what my heart felt. Of all the words I know, admittedly there aren’t that many, the only way to describe it was that feeling of being home for the first time after a long, long time away. The feeling where you walk inside, look around at your home, drop your bags with a great sigh of relief, and kick off your shoes. (I threw that last part in there. I hate wearing shoes). The warm wash of relief , like when you lay down a heavy burden, filled my soul.

I’m grateful for my struggle. Without it, these moments of sweet relief would be less sweet.

Peace be the journey.