Liz's Lesson Learned: I Know Who Holds My Hand

My grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, my parents, and many of my friends – everybody went to church.  My spiritual foundation is rooted in the teachings of the Bible.  At an early age, I began hearing, reading, and being moved by biblical stories.  The life of Jesus Christ intrigued me – as did Moses, Job, Esther, Deborah, Peter, Mathew, Ezra, and Tamar.  I don’t really remember every minute detail about how I became the spiritual person I am now.  I can’t stroll along memory lane and lay out the chronological steps of my progressive growth.  Realistically, I know my journey has spanned my life.  Unlike my educational path or my romantic path, I cannot simply draw a cohesive picture for you.

However, I do know I’ve come a long way since that day in 1972 when my scrawny 12-year-old body was dunked in that freezing baptismal pool situated high above the floor at the front of our large sanctuary.  I was tall for my age, so I could peek over the front wall of the pool and look down on the congregation that included my Mom, Dad, three brothers, and two sisters.  I was draped in a white cotton, stiffly ironed tunic.  Yes, I was dunked, and I quickly sprang up like a spinning top, hastily swatting at the water in my eyes, determined to show the onlookers that I was a brave girl and I was definitely still alive.  At least that’s how I felt at the moment.  But now I’m sure I looked more like a drenched rag doll.

It took a while to move from the routine churchgoer who attended church events, sang in church choirs, and even attended church with my friends but not really feeling God move in my life, to this all-consuming joyous place where I feel the Spirit moving through me all the time.

And just maybe this is the way it is supposed to be.  I don’t know. I tell you, while I may not have understood it all, I really did believe Jesus was real when I joined.  We went to church every Sunday, and my parents went during the week for different meetings and services.  We didn’t go to Sunday school at the first church where my parents were members.  We kids only attended the 11:00 worship service.  I loved the music – hymns like the Old Rugged Cross, I Must Tell Jesus, Plenty Good Room, Holy, Holy, Holy, and so many others.  They had wonderful lyrical melodies and were really catchy tunes. 

It was amusing to watch one particularly nice elderly lady get happy every Sunday as if on cue.  I loved going to church, but I wasn’t spiritually moved by it all. In fact, as a young adult, I remember remarking to my younger brother that one guy lacked believability when he got so emotional and started crying every time he sang a solo.  “No one gets that moved,” I matter-of-factly exclaimed.

Anyway, I had fun on retreats and even helped out at Saturday church workdays.  And it certainly helped that once cleaning was done, we’d have hot dogs and chips, cookies and sodas. We could eat as many as we liked.  Though my parents said we had to be involved in church, it was cool because we enjoyed going.

But let me reiterate.  I was not one to get “happy”, speak in tongues, shout hallelujah at the first drumbeat, or cry at the first moving lilt of a melodic rendition.

But never speak in absolutes, unless you know who holds your hand…

And then I had that first moment when I became so moved by a song I was singing that I began to cry; the tears that welled up in my eyes and over the brim, trickling down my cheeks, turned into a flood that dripped from my chin and soaked my clothes. Hiccups began deep in my chest and then rumbled up to my throat and rendered me barely capable of making it through the song.  Since then, that has happened many times.

One memory that sticks out clearly in my crowded mind is the day I sang at one of my very best friend’s funeral service.  We met in college and remained friends until the day he died.  I still think about him and all the times we sat up on the phone all night.  He would be in Boston while I was in Washington, DC.  Or he was in Providence, Rhode Island, and I was in Brooklyn, NY.   When I planned to marry my husband, he invited me up to hang out with him in Providence.  When I said my fiancé would have to come with me, he volunteered to pay for him to stay in a hotel.  Now, don’t get things out of sorts here.  He was not interested in a romantic relationship with me.  We had never been intimate.  We were just best friends.  Nevertheless, at first, he didn’t see where my husband would fit in and thought I needed to be talked out of this marriage.  I assured him that I wanted to get married and that he and I couldn’t live in a bubble for the rest of our lives.  His life went on, and mine had to move along also.

So, he came to my wedding, and we hung out countless times and had so many adventures after I got married. 

As he was living out his last days in a hospital, I would go and keep him company.  On one occasion, I even brushed his teeth when he couldn’t do it himself.  One day, shortly before he succumbed, he asked me whether Jesus forgives those like him.  He didn’t believe in many of the things in life – institutions, politics, religion.  But he had a heart of gold, was extremely intelligent, wrote beautifully, and was a magical friend.

My mother, father, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, and my children all knew him well.  His family knew my family, too.  He came to our family gatherings, and I spent hours at one another’s homes.  I even rented property from his brother and sister-in-law.  Contrary to mutterings, we were friends from freshman year 1978 until June 26, 2000

Life took its toll on his body, and I found myself at his funeral, called forward to sing a solo.

The accompanist began playing the funeral home’s piano. I pulled myself together and began.  “I don’t know about tomorrow; I just live from day to day”.  And as my voice blended with the fingers that rhythmically danced on the ivories, I felt the blessed sensation of ministering in music.

Then I became aware of the face of a man, whose 6-foot-five-inch frame was now laid out stiff and cold in that casket.  The one who died way too soon.  And it all hit me, and I began to shake.  It wasn’t noticeable at first.  Only I was aware of the transformation. 

Now, I do know the emotional side of grief.  But I seldom crossed the line between grief and spiritual encounter. Yes, I was mourning the loss of my friend, and in my grief, I was doing what I knew-- allowing my anguish to seep through as I tenderly yet forcefully ministered to those gathered, helping them hear the words and get the meaning of that old hymn…

I don't know about tomorrow I just live from day to day I don't borrow from the sunshine For its skies may turn to gray I don't worry o'er the future For I know what Jesus said And today I'll walk beside Him For He knows what lies ahead.

Ev'ry step is getting brighter As the golden stairs I climb Ev'ry burden's getting lighter Ev'ry cloud is silver lined Well there the sun is always shining There no tear will dim the eye At the ending of the rainbow Where the mountains touch the sky

Many things about tomorrow I don't seem to understand But I know who holds tomorrow And I know who holds my hand

As I sang, I was gently moved to a holy place.  All of a sudden, I was singing the words of that song to my Savior and asking, begging, bearing my soul to Him.  I’m pretty sure that those gathered heard the words, but I didn’t see their faces.  I sought the strength of my only true and wise God.  It is true that when you come, quote-unquote, face-to-face with our creator, the experience is shatteringly breathtaking.  That's where I floated as my sojourn continued at that moment.

My soul was taken away, and while I thought I sounded as though I could move a congregant with my singing, my entire being said I could not go on.  The trembling turned to crying.  And suddenly I was spiritually somersaulting more than I was singing. 

At first, no one moved to stop my shuddering.  It was as though we were suspended in time and space on that soul-wrenching rollercoaster.  But I kept trying, and then I knew heavenly help was sent my way.  I felt my brother’s arms go around me, and he took my hand.  And then his voice took up the words of the song.  It was his soul-stirring baritone voice, uniting with my contra-alto one, that returned me to the present. The trembling left my body.  I completed the song meant for the friend I had not been poised to lose. Yet, I ended up receiving the gift of an encounter with God.

Once again, I realized one can be moved to tears when earthly events collide with one’s spiritual persona.  It’s a journey that repeatedly corrects my narrow view whenever God materializes in ways that I cannot control.

I could say that for many years I did not know who holds my hand.  I understood Christ was.  I know Iloved serving in church.  I knew that I did my best singing when I sung sacred songs.  But it was not only joining church, or singing at a friend’s funeral.  It is all the moments when I am unexpectedly allowed to enter that treasured place where I encounter Jesus and the Holy Spirit takes complete control. 

So, if you want to know who holds tomorrow, it is not so much what you do as it what you allow to happen when you

• open your heart,

• ignore the yearnings of the world,

• stop being afraid to beg God to intervene and help you,

• accept the hand Jesus offers,

• allow yourself to bask in comfort the Holy Spirit provides

• trust the spiritual journey you will find yourself on when you allow God to take complete control.  and,

• Enjoy the miracle.

The message behind this memory… it can happen at any moment; I may not know about tomorrow, but my spiritual self