There is more than just this

This isn’t the way I wanted the story to go.

I thought it as water from the shower head hit my face, hiding the tears. There is no cell signal at Granny and Papa’s house in Arkansas, so I’d woken up to their land line ringing. It was my mom, and Robert had being trying to call. Olivia wasn’t breathing. I needed to pray.

And I did pray. Oh, how I prayed. I prayed that God would breathe His breath into her little lungs. I prayed, and I believed that He could. That He would.

There, in that shower, I prayed as I have so many times before. I prayed like I knew He was listening, because He was. He always does.

I prayed, and even before the phone rang again, I knew that she was gone. Somehow, I just knew.

I knew she was gone, and in that moment I was lifted.

Carried.

Held.

Held, like He’s held me since I first heard the diagnosis in that doctor’s office eight years ago. Held, like there is no power on earth or anywhere that could tear me from His grip.

Carried. Tenderly, like precious cargo. Like how Livi’s daddy always carried her. So strong and gentle.

Lifted. And I still feel it now. Though I’m living these moments, feeling each emotion as it crashes over my raw and exposed heart. Everything is so real, and so hard. It’s awful, and I hate it. It hurts so bad, and yet I am being lifted above it all by One who isn’t subject to time or place.

My God exists in Heaven, even as He chooses to sit with me here. He holds oceans in His hands, yet He lets the waves hit Him too, so I am not alone. He sees the future and knows the victory that has come and is coming. Still, He cries with me.

She’s my baby.

I know.

My heart is broken.

Yes, I know.

He is with her in Heaven. Laughing, because she’s laughing, and dancing, and spinning, and it’s contagious.

He is there with her, and He is here with me. Simultaneously, laughing with her and crying with me, because He can. Because He is both. Eternity and this present moment, Heaven and earth, Victory and suffering. They all converge in Him.

He is Jesus–Son of the living God and man acquainted with sorrow.

He is both, and He is here with me. In the deepest part of my being, I knew it, even as I waited for that phone to ring a second time. Even as my heart cried out:

This isn’t the way I wanted the story to go.

…

I know, He said. But will you live this story?

Before the phone rang again, I answered. Even as the tears streamed down my face, I answered yes. There is no other answer, because to trust God is to be held.

Held like my Papa held me next to him on their old, brown couch. He never said a word, but his arms surrounded me like my Father’s heart poured out. A steady presence, seeing my pain and offering strength.

This is not the way I wanted the story to go, but I will live it. I will trust Him in it. It doesn’t make sense, how it’s worth it. But it is. Olivia taught me that. And the words that sum up her life keep prodding at my aching heart:

There is more than just this.

Like how Livi used to laugh at things she could see, but the rest of us couldn’t.

There is more than just this.

Like how a child that never spoke a word could express the heart of God so well.

There is more than just this.

How a little girl, could make such a big impact. Even in the days when her laughter had grown quiet and her smile had faded. When her arms weren’t capable of reaching out any more. She still touched hearts with the love of God. How is that possible?

There is more than just this.

Olivia softened the hearts of her siblings and strangers too. She taught her mama and daddy what it means to depend fully on God. Her life counted in all of the ways a life is meant to count. It mattered, and it still does. Even the parts she suffered through. It all mattered.

Because there is more than just this.

Olivia won. Whether or not that feels true in this moment, it is. Olivia won!

There is more than just this.

It’s the reason why the pieces of my shattered being cry out in worship to the God who loved me first. This message is woven through the Scriptures and sewn into the fabric of creation:

There is more than just this broken world.

You can hear it in Jesus’ weeping over Lazarus’ death and in the authority of His command to, “Come forth!” You can see it in the Son’s tenderness toward his mother, even as He hung from a cross. It’s there in the empty tomb, this truth:

There is this. This life matters. And yet, there is more than just this.

It is both. He is both, and we are meant to live as if both are true. So I will live this story–even the parts I must suffer through. In light of eternity, my life is but a breath. So, I will live this day with that Day in mind. I want my life to count like Olivia’s did. Like Olivia’s does.

One day, I will run and giggle and shout with her in Heaven. The foreverness of that only makes this time I have left on earth seem more precious. Like I shouldn’t waste a single drop. Like nothing can be taken for granted. Like Jesus is everything, and everything that means anything is found in Him.

Oh, sweet friend. In my grief, I can see it so clearly–the story Olivia told:

There is more than just this. So, live this life well. Live it like Jesus matters most. He can be trusted.

“Looking to Jesus, the Founder and Perfecter of our faith, Who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.”–Hebrews 12:2