When Tears Flow

 One of my most favourite songs in contemporary Christian music (and by contemporary I mean in the last 50 years, doesn't that make me old?) is Twila Paris singing "The Warrior is a Child" ... it describes someone who is admired for her strength and courage, who really cries inside to be held by the Giver of Strength, God, and gives herself permission to do just that, while acknowledging that her admirers are not aware of it. (I also like her "Sing me a Lullabye" for much the same reason - except this one is actually a prayer.)

Free photo from Pixabay

They are on YouTube if you want to look them up.

This part of the journey is not easy to talk about. It's about seeing someone you love more than you thought possible, struggling to go from day to day, fighting what seems like an insurmountable battle and an unwinnable war. It's about watching the people around you offer their help and their comfort and their support in ways that are tangible - money, yes, but also chores, gift cards for gasoline, offers to donate services for free, HUGS, sometimes even a song, and so much more. The kindnesses shown bring tears to my eyes because I know there is no way that I can repay them, and because they are proof positive that we are loved and cared for by so many more people than we ever imagined. 

But it is also about knowing that what we can see with our eyes is not necessarily all there is to it. I believe in divine healing, and I stand in the faith of Jesus when I speak to the cancer and tell it to shrink and be destroyed and eliminated in His name. That's the warrior part of me. 

And sometimes tears flow. And that is okay. In this weak flesh, I pray that His amazing power and glory will shine so that all will see that He is the source of the miracles. 

And some days are tough. It doesn't mean that faith falters (for it's His faith!) but simply that some days, I feel weaker and more vulnerable. That's all. It keeps me humble, and it keeps me coming back to God to "drop my sword and look up for a smile," as Twila sings. That's the child part of me.

I don't usually talk about my faith on this blog, but it's such an important part of who I am that this once, I cannot be silent about it. When tears flow, and they do, it's not a sign that I've lost faith, but that I need help, strength, and renewed hope to carry on and keep resting in my Saviour's faith. And He gives it.

Things that are real are not always visible. In fact, St-Antoine d'Exupery said in "The Little Prince" that the most essential things are invisible to the eyes. 

I've learned that my tears allow me to fully experience my humanness. That they show my love, my faith, my gratitude, and the depths of my human experience. I do not apologize for them.  

 

For a Warbler

While out walking the dog today, we happened upon a small lump in the road that didn't quite look like a rock or clump of dirt. As we approached, it became clear that it was a little bird, barely 3 inches from beak to tip of tail. 

It was dead. The little body was still slightly warm.

To keep the dog from defiling the body, I picked it up. It was mostly the colour of dust, light grayish brown, slightly darker on its back and wings, created to blend into its natural surroundings (shrubs and trees) perfectly. But it had not counted on a sudden encounter with a car windshield.

This is the closest image I could find. Image
provided by "The Other Kev" at Pixabay

It had been an insect-eater: the beak was narrow and pointed. Its crest (top of its head) was yellow with brilliant orange feathers underneath. A little male! The tiny legs with still-clutched feet seemed like pencil leads. I marveled at the intricate design, milliseconds before my eyes stung and tears spilled over. 

"The poor little thing!" I exclaimed. "What a shame!"

Hubby asked if he could see. I laid the tiny body gently in his hand ad stroked the little head where I found the orange underfeathers that would only show through the yellow if it was agitated. 

"Its neck is broken," he said. "Death was instant." 

"...but still...!..."

He gazed at it a few more seconds, and carefully and respectfully slipped the little body into his coat pocket. "I'll bury it at home," he murmured, more to himself than to me.

As we walked along in silence, a little Sunday School song came to my mind: "God sees the little sparrow fall, it meets His tender view. If God so loves the little things, I know He loves me too." And it's like I heard in my quiet core the still, small Voice of that God say to me, "I saw him fall, too." 

And I cried.