The rain fell, sometimes hard, sometimes soft.. . and Simchara sat in the waning of the night, in the grey of a sunrise that brought no bursts of brightness spilling yellows, fuchsias, outward joy to rebuke the grief of her lament.

She had arrived on the doorstep of her childhood home, wrung out, worn, exhaustion of despair etched on her brow, shadows around her eyes – her arms holding close a tiny child, her son, wrapped in her mantle, protected with the mother’s fierce love born when he was born

Bundled together on the bench outside the door. . . She’d made it through weeks of walking, her only goal to reach home. She’d reached the gate, opening it taking all her remaining strength. She collapsed onto the bench. She hadn’t thought of needing to open the door, that her hands wouldn’t be able to turn the door knob or be unable to fist themselves to knock. . . she’d done what she set out to do. She’d reached home. It was the cry of a hungry child reaching ears long-trained to hear little cries that brought the Mother and Father of Song to the door. They found Simchara and her son in a heap on the bench outside the door.

The mother of song gathered her daughter up from the darkness, ushering her into the room of her childhood where she’d dreamed so many dreams. The Father of Song lifted his grandson into his strong arms, setting him in the settle by the kitchen fire as he pulled out bread, butter, slicing apples from the autumn harvest, and a splice of beef.

The child said nothing, hunger trumping the drowse from the journey. But he ate, filling himself, while the Grandfather of Song talked softly, telling him about the neighbor’s new set of kittens that kept wandering to their kitchen window. “Of course, their coming nothing to do with the warm bowls of milk your grandmother sets out for them,” he said, laughing softly at the joke he often made.

A spark of interest lit the deep brown eyes of his grandson. The grandson and grandfather became close friends after sharing several slices of bread and butter, apples and beef. Dubiously the little boy allowed his grandfather to peel back the stained clothes from travel, to wash his face, then his little body, and finally his feet with warm water poured from the kettle into a bowl. He wiped away the sweat and dirt from the road with a warm, clean cloth, soothing the skin that wrapped around his grandson’s worn little body.

Upstairs, the Mother of Song was doing the same thing – helping her daughter get out of her soiled travel clothes, washing away the travel stains on her skin, setting her feet in warm water to let sore blisters soak. In the quiet, she hummed comfort, a hum that didn’t draw her daughter into where she wanted her to be – into words, into the story of how she came to be in this condition, into ideas that required rising above where she was right now. Right now she needed to soak in comfort, to let the outward soil of a hard journey be washed off—to let the body refresh from the outside, letting the refreshing steep, soak into the inside and that could only happen, knowing she was safe and her child was safe, safe enough to rest.

This was not the homecoming the Mother of Song had anticipated. She’d received a note six weeks ago from Simchara, telling her they were coming. Where was her husband? Has she been walking these six weeks? She’d planned how to fill these empty stomachs, filled the cocoa tin, finished lining a mantle for her grandson, and then they’d waited. They began to think she’d changed her mind. How did her daughter and grandson end up in this condition? She wanted answers, and it took all her self-discipline to stay the questions that threatened to speak. Her daughter was in no condition to answer them.

The Father of Song, having warmed some broth from supper, brought a cup for his daughter to drink, to warm the inside of herself before she slept while the little boy slept in the settle by the kitchen fire. Seeing his daughter tucked into her childhood bed, so lost and alone, the Grandfather of Song went below stairs, wrapped his grandson in a warm quilt and carried him up to the boy’s mother. Tucking the boy in beside her, the grandfather. laid his calloused hands on her brow, his lips moving quietly as he prayed over her, telling her simply, “Welcome home. You are safe. Now sleep.”

Simchara slept for days; the boy woke the first morning to the sound of bacon cooking on the stove. His grandmother wrapped his new mantle around him. His little hands found its pockets, tested the softness of the lining, and marched proudly around the kitchen, show each of them how it billowed as he walked. From that first morning, he became his grandfather’s shadow, following him to the barn, to the neighbor’s house to see the kittens, even bringing one home. Everywhere his grandfather went, he went humming. The little boy mimicked the hum, matching him note for note, double-stepping to keep up with his grandfather’s stride, his mantle billowing behind him.

Finally, one morning, the Grandmother of Song, filled the tub with warm water, woke her daughter. It was time to rise, to immerse herself in the water, greet the day – and all its challenges—and to spend time with the one who walked with her through the challenges, who held the all-is-well answer to the challenge, even though the all-is-well answer sometimes doesn’t look like anything our experience allows us to consider. He leads us to the all-is-well of it.

Hair washed, the tired etchings erased by rest, the shadows of grief still darkened her eyes. Over breakfast, she told her mother the story – how her husband, her partner in song, had taken to walking into the woods, going further and further each day, until one day, he didn’t return.

“Oh, Mama, he’d stopped singing about the King of All Kings,” Simchura cried, and when he stopped singing, it was as though he’d forgotten us, too.

Their friends, their neighbors searched. It was a dangerous place, those woods. The danger had crept closer to the boundaries of their town. There were sightings of fylers, of dragons, of beggars with empty, insolent eyes, black and dull, waiting on roadsides, asking for bread or an apple and when read out to hand it to them, their fingers would brush yours. That touch would spark an insatiable hunger – and hunger so big that bread and butter couldn’t fill it, all the beef and potatoes in the world couldn’t fill it, even drink couldn’t fill it, though many had tried. Drink, though, made them think they’d risen above it, and after they thought they’d risen above it, it numbed them, numbed them into a stupor of nothingness. When the drink no longer made them feel like they were rising above, there were other things, other things men in the dark shadows handed out in exchange for a piece of your soul, until piece by piece, if felt like there was nothing left.

Her husband had been a carpenter, building boxes and cabinets, table chairs, rocking chairs, settles, mantles. . . and beautiful children’s toys: rocking horses, chess pieces, wooden tricycles, spinning tops, wobbly ducks, trains. His levelers, claw hammers, braces, awls, breast drills, chisels, the vises, the tool set, and clamps had been sold for food and fire. She couldn’t travel alone with her son during the summers to sing in other towns and other kingdoms. . . “because, Mama, how can I go sing about the King of All Kingdoms when my prayer hasn’t been answered. My husband’s lost. He chose the things that led him away from us.”

Unable to keep up their home and provide for her son without leaving him with others, she decided she needed to come home. She couldn’t bear the thought of somehow losing her son, too.

She’d written to Emunah, asking if her people could find her husband, reach him, save him, and notifying her that she could be reached here at on the Mountains Rise with a swath resting on the edge of a plateau table.

Her mother listened, breathed evenly in the telling. It wasn’t until Simchara walked out the door, stepped through the gate that she counted to 100. Then she burst into tears, lamenting with her daughter, for the hardness of the challenge through which she still walked, for the lostness of her son-in-law whom she loved, for the bruising and brokenness of the dreams a mother carries for her children, and for the bruising and brokenness of the dreams our children carry. Oh, that unconditional love, a warm home, instruction, formation of manners, discipline to correct the temper, fitting each child for usefulness in their future stations–each so important, but most important was to teach them about the King of All Kingdoms (1828 Noah Webster Dictionary). Even doing all that neither prevents nor protects them from the hard challenges.

The Mother of Song shook her head, as if shaking her head would shake the despair creeping in, shake it right out of her mind onto the floor. Then she thought, reached into her soul lined with songs of praise until she found the right one. She started with a hum, as she reached for the flour and apples, and eggs gathered in the early morning before the sun had touched the dew. Her hum grew until it turned into song:

“What’s your impossible? Your “I need a miracle”?
What’s got you barely hanging by a single thread?
What looks so hopeless now? What weighs down your heart with doubt?
You beg for a breakthrough but no sign of breakthrough yet

When you’ve cried and you’ve cried ’til your tears run dry
The answer won’t come and you don’t know why
And you wonder if you can bow your head even one more time

Don’t stop praying
Don’t stop calling on Jesus’ name
Keep on pounding on Heaven’s door
And let your knees wear out the floor
Don’t stop believing
’Cause mountains move with just a little faith
And your Father’s hеard every single word you’rе saying
So, don’t stop praying. . .

He’s close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit
The Alpha and Omega knows how your story ends

Don’t stop praying for the prodigal
Don’t stop praying for the miracle
Hallelujah, hallelujah and amen
Don’t stop praying that addictions end
Don’t stop praying for deliverance
Hallelujah, hallelujah and amen
Oh, don’t stop praying for the sickness healed
Don’t stop praying for His power revealed
Hallelujah, hallelujah and amen
No, don’t stop praying for the Kingdom come
Don’t stop praying that His will be done
Hallelujah, hallelujah and amen”
~ “Don’t Stop Praying,” Jeff Pardo, Matthew West

As her mother’s hum turned into an intercession, a mother’s love lifting her daughter up to an ever-present King of All Kingdoms, Simchara walked. She walked – the old paths, the ones her parents made in the fields around them, the ones her sisters found in their childhood adventures—every day, all day, she walked for the next few weeks. Even after the leaves fell and the snow trees came.

Her father would see her in the distance, her lament carried on the wind. A wind carrying a lament is neither airy nor light; it is a weighty wind, the burden of it brushing harder as though seeking to shake the weight of it off on someone else willing – or unwittingly able to take on that burden – so it can return to its skipping and frolicsome ways.

One morning, her father found her on the bench just outside the door, her mantle wrapped about her, a lament from the deep groanings of grief within crying out. He laid his hand on her beautiful hair, looked upon her tear-streaked face.

“Yeah, daughter – we lament the loss; we also walk hope, sit in the joy of the Lord. Forget yet not, about the joy of the Lord and the hope of the Lord. Lament, yes, that which needs lamenting. But Praise, child–praise the King of All Kingdoms for what He is doing, though ye see it not. Praise the Hope. Praise in Faith. It is in those praises where joy lives.”

“But papa, how do you live joy when someone you love isn’t. . . can’t. . . when you don’t know if they’re even alive.”

“That, sweet child, is the mystery of the King of All Kingdoms. . . to walk faith, to believe even mountains can be moved. . . if we just wait in faith, speak as though it is true, trust that He has the mountain moving answer. It is a hard thing, but even in the hard, He gives us a holy joy. Not giddy happiness child. Holy joy. Trading your sorrows for joy doesn’t man you’re giving up; it doesn’t mean you’ve stopped caring. It means you’re still trusting in The King of All Kingdom’s all-is-well plan!

Her son, his eyes sparkling with the excitement of spending another day helping his grandpapa feed the goats and cows, muck out the barn, set off at a brisk pace. As he walked away with his grandpapa, she looked after him, a wistful smile on her face. Then she saw his little russack twitch from the inside, and the furry face of a kitten peaking out, watching her.

Her boy, oh, how she loved all the sweetness and shennagians of him.

She pulled out a kerchief, blew her nose from the cold, dug her hands deep into her mantle, and let the cold air bring the cherry red out in her cheeks. She pulled a hum from deep within, a remembrance, a reaching for hope, not quite ready to be put into words. . . but if they had been put into words, this is what they would have been:

“The Lord bless you
And keep you
Make His face shine upon you
And be gracious to you
The Lord turn His
Face toward you
And give you peace

May His favor be upon you
And a thousand generations
And your family and your children
And their children, and their children

May His presence go before you
And behind you, and beside you
All around you, and within you
He is with you, He is with you

In the morning, in the evening
In your coming, and your going
In your weeping, and rejoicing
He is for you, He is for you”
~ The Blessing,”  Chris Brown, Steven Furtick, Kari Brooke Jobe, Cody Carnes

The door opened, and her mother brought her out a steaming cup of hot cocoa and apple cinnamon scones. They sat beside each other, something warm burning right where their hearts were, the stirrings of what felt like joy bubbling. Each feeling a smile rise up. They looked at each other, tapped their mugs together, burying their smile’s in their hot cocoa. This joy of the King of All Kings in a season of lament, Simchara stepped into it tenderly, uncertain it wouldn’t collapse taking her deeper into hopelessness. Her mother? Motherhood had taught her some steps cannot be hurried if you want them to arrive more quickly. Hurrying is known to add delays, detours, backtracking. She settled deeply into her mantle, trusting to let her daughter proceed at The King of All Kingdom’s pace. After all, He knew better than she.

Remember Me Monday: #152 Link-up

“I’ll make a list of God’s gracious dealings,
    all the things God has done that need praising,
All the generous bounties of God,
    his great goodness to the family of Israel—
Compassion lavished,
.    love extravagant.”
~ Isaiah 63:7, The Message

In the Old Testament, God repeatedly, quietly and loudly, tells his children, “You have forgotten me!”  (Jeremiah 3:32, Ezekiel 22:12, to name a few). It’s a heart cry from a father to a child who has forgotten all the love, all the saving, helping, little and big blessings – and it leaves me stunned when I realize our Father, the creator of the universe, who knows things I cannot begin to fathom, who authors storylines that leave me amazed, delights in all of us so much, He cries out, “Remember Me.”

While every day is a Remember God Day, I am inviting you to join me on Monday mornings to come by and remember what God has done for you, for your family. Maybe God sent a cardinal darting out in front of you, as if to tell you, “I’m here,” or broke a child’s fever after you laid it all down at His feet in a 2 a.m. bedside vigil. Maybe He stood with you in the wait of a prayer sent out, or brought someone you loved to Christ. Maybe He healed your broken heart, gave your courage, or you gave Him your dreams as a love offering only to have Him give them back in an unimaginable way. Maybe God helped you survive to bedtime after a crazy Monday, or forgive yourself for missing it with your kiddos –– Whatever it is, let’s Remember Him. . . in a “Remember Me Monday” love letter.

“My mouth will tell of your righteousness,
Of your salvation all the day long,
Though I know not its measure.
I will come and proclaim your mighty acts, O Sovereign Lord”
~ Psalm 71:15-16.

Let us delight in Him by telling the  stories of what He’s done!  If you wrote a blog post remembering what He’s done for you, join the linky. If you didn’t but still want to praise Him for what He’s done – write it in the comment section. Then visit a comment before or after yours! One of the beautiful things about the blogging community is the relationships it builds!

Rules?  Write long or short, a list or a story, include photos or not. Just Remember Him and what He has done, and let the gratitude of your heart guide you. Let’s make Monday so Rejoice, that the goodness of God spills into the rest of the week! (Link opens Mondays at 6 a.m.)

Places I’m Linking at This Week:
  Instaencouragements, Legacy Link-Up, 
Let’s Have Coffee Wednesday 
Recharge Wednesday, Scripture & a Snapshot
Grace&Truth, Sweet Tea & Friends
The Good, The Random, The Fun