Heaven Hears . . .

 

It’s like the books little Jack was stacking on my coffee table that week, gathered from around the house, building the pile as high as possible, in order to place his collection of animals on the top. As the mountain of books rose, and in spite of his confident and assuring words, “They won’t fall, Nana,” eventually, one book, a bit off balance of the others below it, caused the pile to tumble. So it is with our hurts. They accumulate. Like stacked books, some are too heavy for the pile. Hurt for friends who have lost a child. Watching my little Luke struggle. And even the smaller ones compound. Mama’s Thanksgiving platter – now mine. I held it close as I took it out of its year in storage. Daddy’s pine cone ornament, specially made for me, many years ago. Chastisement from a loved one. Conveyed displeasure from another. Sad depression of loss recognized in one I love. The books of hurt are heavy as they compile. You know. Some of you know this weight far more than I do.

 

I drove home from teaching one cold winter night earlier that week. Christmas music played on the radio. In the back of the car was the spray of fresh greens, wrapped in red ribbon and decorated with large red berries – this year’s choice for Mama and Daddy’s grave. “They’ll love this,” I thought, as I selected it from many outside the entry of the grocery store. I wondered when I would take it to the grave. I wondered whether I would cry this time as I said goodbye for the winter. These thoughts occupied my mind, when suddenly one “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” toppled the entire pile. It was Mama’s favorite carol, and now it filled the car and my ears with memories as I drove. I slowed, the oncoming lights blurring my vision, my eyes sprinkled by compounded hurts. And following the carol that toppled the pile, I was hoping to hear one that might take me to the farthermost realm of the season, possibly one with dancing snowmen and “Ho-ho” Santas, where I could hide until the books could once again be stacked as high as possible to comfortably hold all the animals Jack could place on the top. But instead, I was gently taken to a realm of the season where I suddenly found rest in the joy and comfort of being tended by the Shepherd. I heard,

“From heaven’s height to manger low, there is no distance the Prince of Peace won’t go. From manger low to Calvary’s Hill, when your pain runs deep, His love runs deeper still . . .

Somewhere in your silent night, heaven hears the song your broken heart has cried . . .”

 

He hears my cries, I whispered to myself. A peace engulfed me. And I no longer felt even a bit of shame over the compounded hurts that still punctured my heart. Instead, I found comfort that the Prince of Peace was with me through every moment of the season.

 

 

. . . and when the stack of books tumbles, little Jack will rebuild until all the animals can securely be placed on the top.