Amazing Grace Part I

Cool breezes gently blow as we break bread and “story” on the upper verandah of Pastor Harry and Mayre’s house. With satisfied stomachs we listen to the music in the background as Moses, their son, moves his God-gifted fingers over the keys of his keyboard. He taught himself to play in the last 2 years and can now play just about anything he hears. Lucas, Weston, and Kylah surround the keyboard adding a few of their own notes and lifting up voices of song whenever a familiar one is played. Eventually, I wander into the house, the pull of the overwhelmingly beautifuI notes of “Amazing Grace” captures my heart and I join in the singing at the keyboard. A peaceful quietness settles in as our voices rise together. Familiar, favorite words of grace wash over me. My eyes close, my voice lifts in thankful accord as we worship together. As the song ends, Pastor Harry leans in and quietly but firmly says…”You are wasting that gift.” What??? My reverie is broken. “You need to sing for us at church. You need to share that gift.” I blush and mumble some non-committal answer. And then I ponder those words for days to come. I used to sing in church. I used to offer my voice as a gift of worship…on a worship team…to an audience of One. But then something happened.

I couldn’t sing. I didn’t lose my voice…I lost my way. Dark days descended when I wondered why God would lead us to Papua New Guinea and then leave us. Like the children of Israel in the desert I could not see His hand. Rather, I did not trust His hand. I began to question the One I worshiped. I began to doubt if He heard my worship…or if He cared enough to listen. My life-long faith was challenged as loneliness and isolation reared their vicious heads…and selfishness, stubbornness, and discontent clawed at my heart. My song turned into grumbles and garbles, weak cries, and silent gasps…the rocks roared their praises while I uttered ….nothing.

I grappled with this as we returned to the States for furlough. I felt broken, useless, and utterly ready to throw in the towel. I certainly didn’t feel missionary-ish. When the time came to worship, corporately and independently, the deceitful voices of insecurity and condemnation shouted in my heart, ringing in my ears. “How can you worship?” “Where was your God in Papua New Guinea?” “Where was He when you had dengue fever?” “Did He care when your marriage was stretching to the point of breaking?” “Didn’t He betray you---taking you from your family and forcing you to helplessly listen from too far away as your Dad and Mom struggled with health and finances?” “How can you sing joyful songs of praise when you can’t even remain faithful to your God?”


The song of praise caught and died in my throat.

Yet in my silence I heard. I heard a God who is good, and gracious, and patient, and softly He whispered “I am here. I will never leave you.” “It feels like You have,” I cried out. “Beloved, don’t trust the feeling. Trust Me.” “But how?” was my feeble cry. “How do I do that when You let me down?”

The answer came. Not in overwhelming waves but in the gentle, tender ways of a loving Father tending to his hurting daughter’s wounds.

• Through Beverly, who came to my door with a plate of cookies. She, a fellow missionary, openly shared her own history of hurts and recovery. A woman who reached out even before she knew anything about me. But she knew, because she had been there---a wounded, wandering servant. She gave of her time to remind me of the grace, goodness and faithfulness of my Father-God.


• Through Melanie—my sister-friend who gave me a reason to seek; whose story reminds me that there is One who is faithful and can restore what was once shattered beyond hope.

• Through Dr. Munro, Scott and Kim- preachers and teachers who unconditionally loved on us and fed our, oh so hungry, hearts. How providential that Scott taught on marriage almost our whole furlough!


• Through Kelly and Cindy-who encouraged us over a shared meal and reminded us that we are not alone or forgotten.


• Through my Sawgrass girls who live the truth that though our roads travel in different directions they all meet up in the same place when God is in the driver’s seat.


• Through Beth Moore—bold Bible teacher who reminded me that I do, indeed, have a faithful Father and a beautiful inheritance.


• Through our many, many friends and family who loved us through our “ye of little faith” moments. Thank you for your grace.


• Through those who continue to give, pray, and hearten us to persevere on this faith journey.

And yes, through the songs; the sweet, pure songs of worship that poured over this broken heart, restoring, refreshing, and renewing.

(to be continued)