Saturday Morning

Last week, I blogged about the 5th anniversary of my daughter’s death. Yesterday, I was reminded of the morning after the accident. I had gone to bed very late that Friday night after the coroner, the sheriff and our family left the house, vowing to never wake up again. I had made a conscious decision to crawl into my bed, pull the covers over my head and never get out.

But God said , “no.” Saturday morning came, the sun came up just like it always does. The birds were singing, people were out walking their dogs, biking and driving to work past my house. I thought surely the world would have stopped spinning now that my daughter—my ray of sunshine—was no longer in it.

I still tried to stay asleep. I pulled the covers up higher trying to shield the light from my eyes, but it was too late. The names and faces of people were flooding my mind. I knew they would be devastated by the news of my daughter’s death and I needed to comfort them. I had to call and encourage them! I couldn’t wait.

This had to be a supernatural move of God in my spirit because I did not have the strength or energy to think of anyone but myself during that time. I tried to shut down into a dormant state to protect my heart, my very soul. But God had a different plan and he would not allow me to sleep through it. I had to be proactive.

I am so thankful for God and the work he has done and continues to do in me. I am, by nature, a very selfish person. I felt my life had been changed more than anyone else’s by my daughter’s death, shouldn’t they be comforting me? Shouldn’t I be the one who needed it the most? Not on that Saturday morning. God put a calling in my heart that I have not been able to ignore since.

Many people have every reason to pull the covers over their heads and never wake up again. They have every excuse to numb their minds with drugs, alcohol, food or shopping. I am driven to help them know the hope that I have found in the providence of God. He put a message in my heart that first Saturday morning that I have to share.

I never thought I’d be able to see light again. I never thought I’d be able to hear a song, much less sing one. I never thought I’d be able to function after my daughter died. But here I am, five years later—functioning—active in ministry—singing as I go. That has not happened by any personal fortitude—I don’t possess it—but only by the power of my unswerving hope.