Melody on a Mountaintop: Let It Go

I was done.

Done.

Stick-a-fork-in-me done.

I sat slumped in a chair in my attorney's office with the final blow to my stand for my marriage.

The stack of papers was thick with betrayal, and my head was spinning, as I perused the pages confirming what I had known in my heart for months but now of which I had plain confirmation in black and white.

The phone calls. The charges. The gifts. The trips. 

The deception.

There was no denying it.

And thank goodness my dad was in the seat beside me to hear what my lawyer was advising me because I couldn't focus on anything but those papers.

With every line, my hope died a little bit more.

My attorney looked sadly at me and said, "You need to take those home and process them.  And call me when you are officially ready to be divorced."

I nodded with tears welling apologetically in my eyes, wishing I could suck it up for five more minutes to preserve what little shred of dignity I might have had left.

I fell to pieces in the car as my dad transported me back home.  My spirit was consumed with pure hopelessness, and I just didn't know,

How to go on. 

And my dad firmly placed his hand on the stack of papers in my lap and declared, "Chelsea, this is God protecting you."

I'd heard the sentence before from my counselor, who tried to help me understand that sometimes great pain is God's mercy from what could be an even more painful future.

The door was locked and wouldn't open, no matter how hard I tried to jimmy the handle.

And it was the first moment I realized that maybe they were right.

Maybe this was God's way of finally releasing me.  I had given it everything I had for seven straight months, and I was done.  I had nothing left to offer.

He wasn't budging no matter what I did.  No matter how much I prayed.  No matter how much I changed.

I fell to my knees and opened my hands to the Lord.  And I remembered the phrase that I'd heard in the play (oddly titled) The Great Divorce, which my parents had taken me to see in March. 

One of the characters was in heaven and faced with a brilliant angel who asked him to give up a vice that he didn't want to let go. 

May I kill it? the angel asked dispassionately, while the man screamed in anguish at the thought of releasing something so important to him, even though it was destroying him. 

And when he finally offered the vice, shouts of agony echoed in the theater.

But once it was gone, then what was awful and ugly was turned into a beautiful stallion, on which he rode into the sunset.

And I felt the Lord asking me that question on the floor of my closet.

May I kill it?  May I take away your one-track view of how things should end?

I wasn't promised a perfect future or a knight on a horse.

But I knew that this marriage was not going to be saved.

And what could I do?  Hold on to it and succumb to a slow, silent death?

Or let it go and let the Lord take over?

I gathered all of the books I'd bought on saving my marriage and sobbed tears of defeat over them.  All of those hours and nights seemingly wasted.

Take it, Lord.  I give it up.  I can't do this anymore.

That's the funny thing.  The Lord can't fill our hands if they are already full.  They have to be empty in order to be filled.

My marriage was over.  This was it.  It was time to move on with the rest of my life.

Later that night, I took all of those books on divorce in the car with me, and I asked that my parents stop by the grocery.

I got out, books in hand, and walked to the garbage can.

I sighed a sigh of release and dropped them in the trash.

And never looked back.

Melody on a Mountaintop: Fast Forward

Stop.  Rewind.

It was the chilly afternoon of November 3, 2013.

My plane had touched down at exactly 1:00 pm. Right on time and not a second too late.

I swaddled a sixteen-month-old Harlow in the Moby wrap and nestled a pacifier between her lips to keep her calm.

I'd have given anything to have had something to physically calm me at that moment.

But I had to keep it together.  I had to keep my composure.  Don't ask any questions, Chels.  Just keep calm.

With the weight of a week of sleepless nights and unintentional starvation, I carried her out to baggage claim and texted him that we had arrived back in Nashville, so that he could pick us up.

I was tachycardic and sweating despite the November nip, and when I saw him, my body kept moving in normal movements, but my heart.

My heart was breaking in two.

He was cordial and elated to see Harlow, so I slipped her out of the wrap and into his arms so that he could hold her.

I turned quietly and waited like a zombie for the carousel to begin turning.

I must have stood there for the eternity of ten minutes before my bright pink bag shouted its arrival amongst the other luggage, and I pulled it down beside me, rolling it dejectedly behind me.

There he was.  Waiting with the car.  And holding my future in his hands.

I paused and felt the breeze whip against my blue sweater.  Fear began to suffocate me.  And I'm glad I didn't know the future because getting in that car would have been ten thousand times harder.

I didn't know.

I didn't know he was going to leave me when we got home.

~~

Fast forward.

It was a perfectly warm late night on July 26, 2014.

The plane had touched down at 10:38 pm. Two minutes early and not a second too late.

And this time, I found that I was in the same car in the same parking spot that I had been in that fateful November afternoon.

And when I realized the irony, I felt those old nerves wriggle me into a mild panic.

But this time is different, the Lord reminded me.  Calm down, Chels.  And look.  Look at what was and look at what is.

For God can redeem even an airport parking lot.

~~

Stop.  Rewind.

It was a fall evening in 2013, not long after he had left.

And my dad sat miserably at a wedding reception, haunted by the hope and happiness of the beginning of a marriage, and distraught at the crumbling of his daughter's.

And then, the song played.

I see skies of blue and clouds of white

The bright, blessed day

The dark, sacred night

And I think to myself...

He hung his head as the sweet melody reverberated.

For that was the song my dad had danced to with me.  At my wedding.

A day when we only thought about for better and not for worse.  When "'til death do us part" felt true.  And we thought the "I do" was honest.

The song that had moved him to happy tears on August 15, 2009 now broke him.

~~

Fast forward.

It was a summer morning in 2014.

And the video sent to my phone had a song specifically chosen for me.

The chords began to sound beautifully from the piano, and then, the words began.

I see trees of green and red roses, too

I see them bloom

For me and you

And I think to myself...

There was a simultaneous eruption of sadness and joy that developed in me that very moment, a tangible definition of the word bittersweet.

And before I could dismiss the song as forever tarnished, I became still before the Father. 

Listen.  Hear what was and hear what is.

And I thought to myself...

What a wonderful Lord.

For God, He can redeem even a song.

~~

Stop.  Rewind.

It was all those weeknights I was living in our house alone with Harlow, and I would haul her to the Target parking lot to put the song and cry of my heart on repeat.

Lord, I come, I confess

Bowing near, I find my rest

Without You, I fall apart

You're the One that guides my heart.

Oh, the sobs that shook the car as my world crumbled bit by bit around me.  All of my fears, all of my worries, all of my "what ifs" had transpired, and there was nothing left to do except surrender.

And worship.

~~

Fast forward.

It was a morning made for redemption on July 13, 2014.

And the song that filled my car as sadness and desperation abounded now echoed in a church sanctuary from the most angelic voices.

Lord, I need You

Oh, I need You

Every hour I need You

My one defense

My righteousness

Oh, God, how I need You.

I had been asked earlier that week what song I would like to hear that Sunday morning, and I could think of none better.

The tears spilled over my cheeks in awe and wonder.  Could it be?  Can this really be happening?

For come and see.

Pause.  And absorb.

What was and what is.

For God.  He can redeem anything.

Melody on a Mountaintop: Front and Center

It's easy to hide in the crowd of a big church.

Brentwood Baptist has inordinate amounts of positive aspects--meaty sermons, awe-filled times of worship, sound leadership--not to mention an in-house cafe and basketball court.

Really, there's a reason so many people choose to attend there.

But one of the major drawbacks to being one of thousands of members is just that--you can become a wallflower, and some might never know.

And I felt that way some Sundays.  My parents and I would sit on a pew in the middle of the sanctuary, and I often wondered if I was beginning to blend in with the furniture.

If someone had stuck an empty communion cup in my mouth, thinking that I was a cupholder, I might not have been alarmed.

I became weary of "hiding."  I was there to engulf myself in the Word and rejuvenate my spirit with worship and prayer, and so one morning, I told my mom,

"Why don't we sit on the front row?"

She looked at me peculiarly.

I wanted to be right in the middle of the action.  No distraction of people in front of me.  Lasered in to whatever the Lord might teach my heart in the hour I resided there.

So I clutched my Bible to my chest and walked toward the platform and planted myself on the front row.

Front and center. 

And we remained there for every Sunday to come.

But it didn't click that the importance of "location, location, location," could apply to pew-sitting.

Little did I know, the Lord led me there because it was exactly.

Where.

I.

Was.

Supposed.

To.

Be.

Melody on a Mountaintop: It's Not Easy Being Green

I wore my brand new green skirt that day.

It was vivid and fresh and certainly hard to miss, given that it was early January, when colors often bury themselves deep in the recesses of a closet.

But this day deserved something bright.  Something hopeful.

Green--the color of newness, birth, revitalization.

And...reconciliation?

It had only been a week or so after I had been served with divorce papers, but events had led to him calling me that previous Friday night with a certain ambiguity in his voice and a promise of bringing Harlow to our church with him that Sunday.

He was coming with me to church?

Needless to say, this was an unexpected twist in the plot, which I was naively sure was indicative of the change of heart for which I had prayed.

So, yes.  The green skirt seemed perfectly in line with my anticipated reconciliation.

In the car on the way to church that morning, I was overcome with intense nervousness and excitement.

Excitement.  Something that had eluded me for several months at that point.  I had forgotten what it felt like to look forward to something, rather than tolerating the hours as they passed.

We sat together, side by side, but not nearly like old times.  There was a clear line drawn between the two of us on that pew.  He dared not cross it, and I dared not force him.

By the time the afternoon rolled around, and we had worshiped together and eaten lunch as a "family," I found myself in the living room of my parents' house with him, waiting for the words he was obviously hesitant to muster.

Here it comes! I thought.  My suddenly! My answer to my prayers! The restoration of my marriage!

But instead, it turned out to be more of a cruel joke.  Reconciliation was still completely out of the question for him, and I was told that he was no longer in love with me.

The numbness was captivating.  How could I have been so stupid?

He had taken a sledgehammer to my hopes and beaten them into a brokenhearted dust.  He left me that day in uncontrollable tears.

And like the other colors of summer that hid from the bitter winter winds, I laid my green skirt to rest.

Every following Sunday, when I would search for something nice to wear to church, that green skirt would hearken betrayal and misery, and I couldn't bring myself to pull it from the hanger.

Green.  The color of restoration.  A restoration that, it didn't seem, was ever going to happen.

So there it would hang sadly, sandwiched in the middle of the closet, where my glance would fall every time I opened the door.

Until one cheery, warm Sunday morning when I vowed that the past could no longer hurt me.

And I found that God can even redeem a green skirt.

Melody on a Mountaintop: With Her Nose Stuck in a Book

Forever I had maintained the position that I loved to write but hated to read.

 

The people that would tell me they would read for fun?  Well, they were just plain crazy.  What would you want with two-dimensional lettering and imagination when there's a whole world of television to be watched?

 

Before the divorce had been set in motion, every night, my routine involved putting Harlow to bed, chowing down on some takeout, and camping in front of the flat screen for hours of Netflix goodness.

 

But then, when everything changed, my routine just couldn't stay the same.  I was gasping for air and couldn't bear to rot away in front of yet another season of The Bachelor.

 

It would have been like putting a noose around my neck and wondering why I couldn't breathe any easier.

 

So one Sunday after Harlow and I had moved in with my parents, I traipsed the hallways of church, trying to gather the thoughts I'd had that were scattered all over the floor.

 

I passed by the church library and decided to give it a whirl.

 

I'd already started purchasing and inheriting all sorts of reading material to help me stave off the divorce.  My nightstands were stacked with readings like The Divorce Remedy, I Do Again, and Love Must Be Tough.  It wasn't long before my incessant Google searches for how to "pray away the divorce" landed me on a website that supported others like me who desired to stand for their marriages.  And that led to purchasing more books on the subject, like The Prodigal's Perspective and Prodigals Do Come Home.

But when I walked into the library that day, I half-heartedly selected a book by Chuck Swindoll that had zero, zip, zilch to do with divorce.  And everything to do with becoming more like Jesus.

 

And bam!

 

I was hooked.

 

I read seven books in just a few short months that studied the lives of seven different Bible characters--David, Moses, Esther, Job, Joseph, Elijah, and Paul.

 

Slowly but surely, I replaced divorce-busting manuals with inspiring accounts of regular men and women who gave themselves over to the Lord to be used for incredible purposes.  And I became enraptured with the idea of becoming more and more like Christ and less and less like the old Chelsea.

 

I saw my shortcomings plain as day, as well as instruction for remedying them.  I received comfort in the midst of a pit, and hope for a peak in the future, no matter how far away that might be.  I released the desire for revenge and learned more about grace.

So every night after Harlow would go to bed, for months, I would slip silently away to my bedroom, sometimes my closet, and read for hours and hours, nourshing my soul with the sweet air of God's promises.

 

And every Sunday, I'd return a book to the church library and grab another.

 

And another.

 

And another.

And wouldn't you know that the girl who loved to write but hated to read...

 

Wound up being the girl with her nose stuck in a book.

 

Until the one morning she looked up and saw what she'd been passing by all of those months on those long walks to the library.

Melody on a Mountaintop: A Pink Rose for All Seasons

I stared absentmindedly at the rain as it beaded on the passenger door window, coursing down the glass like sweat down a humid Tennessee brow.

The sky was angry with a horrible shade of gray, and my sister sounded a melancholy tune through the speakers.

Funny, even Harlow and my niece and nephew were quiet in the backseat.  The moment was rich with solemnity, palpable to even the deadest nerve.

It was late October, almost Halloween, and my attempt was to escape home and the pain that had transpired in the previous seven days, but even six hundred miles away, the sting had managed to find me and sawed away at my heart.

I need to find a symbol, I thought.  But what?

My heart was hardly in the game that my brain had started, and I closed my eyes firmly, reminiscing about the phone call I'd had the night before.

Choose a symbol, the phone counselor had advised me.  Something between you and God.  And every time you see it, remember God and His faithfulness.

Truth be told, it sounded a bit hokey to me.

But she went on.
Pick something, anything you like.  I knew a woman once who loved lighthouses, and even though she lived in Kansas, that was her thing between her and the Lord.  And you know what? Lighthouses started popping up in her path.  On stickers and pictures.  And each time, they reminded her of God and His great love for her.

God was to be my Husband for this season, she said, citing a passage in Isaiah.  My Provider and Protector.

God?  My husband?  It was nice but a little hard for me to swallow.

But the notion kept turning over in my mind, and like a good book, I couldn't put it down.

Okay, God, I mused silently.  I don't know.  I don't know what to pick.  I guess, I don't know.  I like pink roses.  Pink roses.  That's what I pick.

I hardly meant it.  But I was willing to try anything to bring me comfort.  And if God was to be my Husband, well, then pink roses are what I want.  They're symbolic of romance to me, a thing so intimately important to me.

A thing no longer available to me.

I glared out the window and immediately realized the ridiculousness of my choice.

It was almost November.  In Texas.  I could have at least picked something that I knew I could see anywhere.  Like, I don't know, a Mexican restaurant or a boot store. 

And I kid you not, not sixty seconds later, I saw it.

One lonely hot pink rose on the side of the highway, bending in the wind but mightily standing against the storm.

I sat up and rubbernecked like a lunatic.

I couldn't believe it.

Tears welled in my eyes as I pondered the graciousness of my Father.

A pink rose.  A love note.  From a Husband who knew my heart and my pain. 

And since then, they have popped up all over the place, always when I least expect it...

A pink rose on the binder of a book nestled among hundreds of others in a used bookstore in Texas.  It called out to me, as if it knew my name and had been placed on the shelf for such a time as this.

...a book that was a balm to my soul during my stay with my sister.  It was filled with romance--the one that exists between Jesus and a believer--and too appropriate for words.

Pink roses all over the cover of a book on an outdoor store shelf the day after I was left as a single mom. 

A pink rose tucked in the palm of my mother, as she and my dad came to care for me back in Tennessee when I had the stomach bug on Thanksgiving.

A pink rose on the counter at my friend's house, during a brunch hosted to support and encourage me.

Pink roses delivered to me on my birthday.

Six pink roses at my doorstep on the anniversary of my engagement.

A single pink rose tucked into a Mother's Day bouquet sent "from" Harlow.

Not to mention, my mother had several bushes of red knockout roses planted in our front yard, and guess what...

When they bloomed, they weren't red. We have pink roses in our front yard!

All who sent me pink roses, save for my mother, were blissfully unaware of what the bud meant, yet they were still moved to send them to me.  It mesmermized me.

And as I prayed one night, I asked the Lord that if there be some man out there that He had selected to be a future husband for me, could He please...

...maybe...

...just send him with a pink rose, so I know he's the one?

It was prayed half in jest, but it turns out that God has a sense of humor.

Because on a summer evening, with a twinkle in His eye,

...the most significant pink roses appeared on my porch.

Sing A Song of Six Posts

Y'all ready for this?!

You have sat and prayed with me in the pit, and now it's time to SING from the PEAK!!

Just like Prelude to a Pit, the new series (entitled Melody on a Mountaintop) will start tomorrow night at 7pm, and there will be one post a night for six nights before the big, fat Hallelujah chorus of a post next Friday night that reveals my big news!

God is always good and faithful, friends, even when we can't see it, but I'm terribly excited to brag on how He has brought beauty from ashes and restored ten thousand times over what the locusts have eaten. 

Satan may have meant it for evil,

But God....

He meant it for good. 

Are you ready to stand up and celebrate with me?!?

It all goes down tomorrow night!  Praying I will see you here!

Xoxo,

Chels