It’s been a while since I have written here. I don’t know why, just that I haven’t ‘felt’ like it. That’s something I don’t usually let myself say, especially if I want to be a grown up;)

But, the other day a friend was praying for me. She was saying that it was the end of a long season of trial, mourning and wilderness for me. She also was praying that I would have the grace, the discipline to remember the journey. Remember what God has done and so to then give Him thanks. Actually, it was more wild than that. ‘Celebrate’, she said.

And that is what I am going to do. Celebrate. Am I not the woman who, three and a half years ago, was strung out from the ravages of hypermania? (a severe symptom of bipolar disorder) Wasn’t it me in that hospital room, with its white, communist walls, strapped to the bed after my attempts to go to the window and have Jesus carry me to Heaven? Aren’t I the one who drooled for months after as I acclimated to medicines and a body far from stable?

Yes, my life is a precious thing. It’s a sacred song of hope. And I am going to raise my hands high to Heaven and sing, clear and full. Because it truly is His song. The God who brings something beautiful out of what is not.

Every course the darkness took me those three plus years ago, was a dead end of doubt, desecration and despair. I would slam into it all in the thick of night, my breath turning hot and hard. My heart felt all crumpled up. There was a seizing pain as I thought about the life we were forced to leave. I ached at what my dear husband said goodbye to in those days.

And yet the morning. There have been roughly 1,350 days since those tragic ones in Budapest.A And not one of those has failed to be ushered in by the rising sun. As Lamentations declares its hope amidst the dark times, so do I. “Because of the Lord’s GREAT LOVE we are not consumed. His mercies ARE NEW every morning. Great is Your faithfulness.’ (Lamentations 3:21-24 emphasis mine)

Every morning has brought a little more healing. A little more hope. A little more of the treasures of His goodness.

Then I think more, harder. There have been about 16,240 days since I came into this world. Not one of those has gone without a sunrise. The hope is longer, wider, deeper over my life. The blessings cascade over me. Too many to count, but I will do just that. One at a time.

Yes, hope is indeed a sacred song. And it’s my sacred song. The mountaintops are calling to me. The sunshine of the golden heights is beckoning me. For dark has been the midnight, but dayspring is at hand. Every day I get a little closer to the full light of day. I am witness to the melting winter. These are throw-my-head-back-with-the-laughter kind of days.

And I know, friend, oh I do, that you may be in a much different season. But I want you to know, I have been where you are. And I promise you, our faithful God will bring you to where I am and beyond. For yours is a story whose sacred song, coursing through its pages, is also one of hope. And hope does not disappoint. It is not possible. That is, if it is hope in God, in His Son, in the great promise of Redemption. If the faintest glimmer is all you can see, then see it as it is but also as a thousand mornings will make it to be.

It is real, dear ones. It is real. My friend saw me like Lucille Ball in that episode where she is stomping the grapes in Europe. She saw me full of joy and laughter as I drank that rich harvest. There was a table with everyone I loved around (that’s you) and a great feast. It all reminds me of the fullest joy a Bridegroom promised His Bride One Day.

That is where this is all headed. Hope grows in our hearts when we gaze upon the perfect promises of our Jesus. He is the light shining in the darkness that cannot be overcome. He is the dawn of a million mornings. And every precious morning He is drawing us closer to our forever celebration in His arms.