Release: The Art of Moving Forward

It's been a little over a year since lightning struck our workshop, causing a scorching and fast-moving fire that destroyed the building and everything in it. It's been a long, hard season. Most of the clean-up is complete, but a day doesn't go by that I don't think of the fire and remember something more that was lost. Some items are inconvenient—a tool, paint, or something I need for a project. Other items are like jabs to my heart as I think of them. As I mentioned in my blog post, Painful Archaeology, dated March 27, 2024, we lost some of our daughter Nicole's earthly possessions. Her horse show ribbons and trophies - her western hat and boots, some of her show cloths. During the clean-up, I sat in the rubble, digging through the ashes; I longed to cling to every little charred scrap of what was left. I had difficulty releasing what was lost and could not move forward.

I thought I had learned this hard lesson after we lost Nicole in an accident several years ago. I even have a chapter in my book dedicated to letting go, but like many lessons in our lives, learning comes in layers. The destruction of the fire was the classroom the Lord would use to gently lift another layer of scar tissue from around my broken heart.

Painful Archaeology

When I found a piece of something recognizable in the ashes, I would bring it into the house, trying to scrub it clean - to make it salvageable. However, I realized that doing so only caused more pain.

Holding each item in my hand, I asked God, "Why couldn't it be completely destroyed? Why did I have to see the remnants of happy days damaged beyond repair? " I could almost hear Him saying, "Then it wouldn't be letting go; it wouldn't be a sacrifice." Holding the items, grieving what was lost, and then choosing to release them was the sacrifice—again, opening my hands and offering God my pain. Grief isn't a one-and-done action. Yes, we grieve with hope, but we do grieve. This world is full of loss and pain. The fire just seemed to be a physical manifestation of it.

As long as my hands were tightly gripped, holding my pain like the charred fragments left from the fire, I couldn't move forward. I couldn't receive what I truly needed. The better gift - whatever that looked like. It may not be a physical replacement for the item lost because most of the treasures lost were irreplaceable. But what if the better gift was more freeing - bringing a more profound healing and wholeness to my soul?

Opening my hands and letting go requires trust because, in my humanity, it is hard to picture anything good coming out of this. Opening my hands would, in essence, be saying that I trust God with all of it - The fear and trauma of the actual fire, the loss of irreplaceable items, the loss of practical items, even the financial loss. All of it. Could I say I didn't lose anything in the fire that I needed, or even that was good for me? Because God has and will give me everything I need? Even more than I need?

I will never lose the time we had Nicole on this earth or the beautiful Christmas celebrations that our family has experienced. Like our daughter, Megan calls them - the treasure. The items burned up were just receipts of those memories (Blog, Painful Archaeology, dated March 27, 2024 )

Isaiah 43:19

See, I am doing a new thing!

    Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?

I am making a way in the wilderness

    and streams in the wasteland.

This past year has had many moments that felt like a wasteland in my soul. However, I can feel God making a way - in ways I could never imagine. Streams of healing and hope began to flow where ashes threatened to smother anything beautiful.

Maybe you feel like you're in a wilderness season right now. You may be like me and are faced with another layer of grief that you've thought you dealt with. Or your heart has been ripped open by a recent, devastating loss. Letting go doesn't mean you don't grieve. Grief is a natural response to loss. Acknowledge what you've lost, allowing your heart to sit in that sorrow, opening your hands minute by minute, and giving God your pain - over and over until you can take a step and then another. He sees your heart. He is making a way through your loss, whatever that loss is.