Love Song

My phone screen went dark, but the doctor’s words still hung in the air, sucking all of the oxygen out of the room. Each descriptor made it harder to breathe.

Rare. Progressive. Genetic. Incurable.

We had just received the news, and I needed—as though my life depended upon it—a new journal and matching pen to process the flood of thoughts and emotions that were sure to surface over the coming months. Twenty minutes later, I walked into TJ Maxx with a throbbing heart. Shoppers were uncommonly sparse, and the calm surroundings amplified my inner chaos.

Those labels which had before been merely terms took on an aspect of dread and grew larger than life. Each one boasted of its power and issued an identity statement with the force of hell behind it.

Rare. Progressive. Genetic. Incurable.

“Rare” translated to isolation: No one will be able to understand you. How could they? Only one American in every 8,000 truly gets it. You are alone.

“Progressive” translated to overwhelm: However difficult things may start out, the needs will only expand and multiply, and who wants to be around that kind of suffering? You are a burden.

“Genetic” translated to guilt: Because of your personal DNA, this baby girl was handed a death sentence. The information that makes you who you are at the most basic level is toxic. You are wrong.

“Incurable” translated to despair: No matter how hard you battle, death has the final say. Abandon all hope. You are doomed.

Thoughts spiraled as I wandered glassy-eyed toward the notebooks. The upper layers of my anxiety spun with logistics. Is this real? What happens now? What will this mean for her? What will this mean for us? How do we tell our church? But my core was concerned with another question: Where is God?!

The area where I live is about as secular as this country gets. But for some reason, as can only be concocted in the mind of the Good Shepherd, Katy Perry’s “Firework” faded on the speakers overhead, and a new song I had never heard played there before (or since) stopped me in my tracks. The lyrics came straight from the heart of heaven and went like this:

If it is some care you need
Come and cast your cares on me
And if you need a listening ear
I wanna hear the whole story dear

Tell me everything
And don’t leave nothing out
I’ll be waiting on ya

Come as you are
You don’t have to be lonely
You can count on me
Come as you are
You don’t have to be lonely
You can count on me

I’ve been telling you for some time now
You’re not a burden, not weighing me down
So fight that voice that says you’re on your own
You don’t have to do this thing alone

Come as you are
Broken and bruised
Hurt and defenseless
Tired and confused
And lay it all down
Bring it all now
To someone who loves you
You don’t have to be lonely

Come As You Are, The New Respects

I’m well aware that it’s not seemly to bawl like a baby in the aisles of TJ Maxx, but, friends, I was a wreck. The infinite King had turned the stationery section into the sanctuary my soul so desperately needed. This King is also a Father, and He delights to move in close. God had not left me to deal with my pain apart from Him. The ugliness of this space between shock and grief was pregnant with His presence.

Jesus was right there in the middle of my mess, nearer than each breath. Four years later, I can hear with clarity what my tears muffled in that moment, and His tenderness is staggering.

You are not alone. While this may be a season of feeling disconnected from others, you will never be isolated from Me. My home is with you, safe in the Father’s heart.

For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God.

Colossians 3:3

You are not a burden. The needs you can’t see yet? I know each one fully, and the weight of their sum doesn’t scare Me. I am more than enough for you and your little one.

He tends His flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in His arms and carries them close to His heart; He gently leads those that have young.

Isaiah 40:11

You are not wrong. I have paid the highest price to clothe you with My rightness, My perfection. You are a new creation with breathtaking design and glorious purpose.

But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for His own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of Him who called you out of darkness into His marvelous light.

1 Peter 2:9

You are not doomed. No matter how hard death battles, I have the final say. Grab hold of hope and don’t let go.

He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.

Revelation 21:4

Each of hell’s voices, utterly silenced by the cross. Only the fullness of God stuffed into human form, radiating the splendor of eternity, could be with me like this. His name is Jesus. Words of truth are in His mouth. Works of wonder are in His hands. He compassionately encircled my heart at the point of its breaking and has never stopped holding me since.