Walk the Mile and Bear the Load

In one of those funny little coincidences, I have sung The Servant Song in both of "my" two churches in the past two weeks.

The first time was two weeks ago, in our Old Home Church. We made a quick trip up to MB to celebrate my grandmother's 90th birthday and catch up with all the other relatives who came out. It was a heart-brimming kind of a day, and it started with church in the morning.

(Also: there was communion. I have not remained dry-eyed during communion for approximately eight years. There's something all God's banquet table and community and holiness of the jumble of humanity about it.)

The second time was today at my New Home Church. This time, instead of singing from the pews, looking up at the screen for the lyrics, and catching the eye of smiling old friends, I sang it from the piano, where I played along with our fledgling worship team, sending smiles out towards the congregation as they held their hymnbooks.

My favourite line from that song is this one:

I will hold the Christ-light for you, in the nighttime of your fear...

I know that fear. The darkest, deepest parts of night. The down-in-the-bowels, depths-of-despair, stomach-knotting, oh-God-help-me fear. The kind where the days are one torturous, agonizingly slow minute plodding after another, but they're still preferable to the nights where you're alone with the "what if"s and the "why"s and "now what do I do?"s.

Years ago, I often went to my Old Home Church carrying that fear with me. I wept through many services in the back pew. It was horrible.

But.

It was a church where it was okay to weep. It was okay to be scared.

Because I wasn't alone. I was surrounded by people who loved me, who cared about me, and who did everything they could to guide me through that nighttime of my fear, carrying that light for me (since I had no strength to do much more than take each small step), until we got to the other side of it together.

When we moved to Minneapolis, I felt the loss of those Christ-light holders so keenly. I felt frightened - not the same dark fear - but still, apprehensive. We were this little island, just the four of us, alone in a strange city, dependent entirely on each other.

I've always said that you know you're safe when you have The List. The list of people that you could call at 3 am, and that you know would respond unhesitatingly to whatever emergency warranted a call in the middle of the night. I had to leave that list behind when we moved, and it was pretty scary to not have it.

Days like today remind me that I have a new version of The List. I hope that I won't ever experience that nighttime of fear again, but if I do, I've got a whole bunch of people I can call. Like our church small group, including the retired couple who act as emergency contacts for our kids in case something happens.

It feels so good to have The List again. Everyone needs one; it's a cold and lonely feeling to think you're in it all alone. I've had that feeling, and I don't anymore, which is why I love being in church and singing songs that remind me of that....

I will hold my hand out to you, speak the peace you long to hear....