Even If

I was recently asked to share about my story & my music. There are books in my heart that need to be written about that, but this post will be a start.

I was born a song-bird.

My first time leading a congregation in worship was when I was 4 years old. My sisters and I harmonized before we could ride bikes. Music is my mother tongue. My love for Jesus has always been intertwined with music, and worship has been my passion and my home for as long as I can remember.

My life had an idyllic start. Wonderful childhood, Godly family, healthy church. I was filled with God's Spirit and aware of His presence as far back as I can remember. Singing His praise was easy. I fell in love with my best friend in college and our marriage was another blessing piled up on my beautiful life. I had everything.

My first song of lament came when we lost our first child.

How? Why? What now? The Psalms came alive to me, and Job was balm to my heart. God drew near in my pain, and wept with me. We serve a God acquainted with our grief. What an honor to learn that side of Him, though it came at a price. My praise cost more, but it still felt natural to give Him.

We were blessed with two beautiful, healthy baby boys. My heart was so full! But postpartum depression haunted my early motherhood and marred those precious years. God heard my cries in the night when sleep and peace were far, and my mind was ravaged by imbalance & despair. My body and my brain suffered, but still I praised Him.

The next blow was as unwelcome and unexpected. My best friend, my love, my husband told me he didn't love me anymore. My world was shattered. My heart busted into a thousand pieces. How could this happen? How could I fix it? WHY? Over 3 excruciating months, God led me to answers, but they held more pain. Uncovering my husband's affair brought me clarity at the highest cost. My life with him was a lie, and it caused me to question everything. EVERYTHING.

Everything, that is, except my God. This solid core, this unshakable reality, this deep truth remained: God made me, and God loves me. I remember wailing and worshiping, one flowing into the other, as I reeled from the trauma. I was undone with grief, even as I was held together in love. Worship was so much more than pasting on a smile to some music. Worship was the depth of my soul, the fullness of my pain, touching the depth of His glory and the fullness of His grace.

It wasn't cheap, it wasn't easy. But my worship and my trust became even more solid as everything around me burned. I knew beyond doubt that God really was enough for me, even if I lost everything else.

"Though You Slay Me" was written years later, birthed in a moment of spontaneous worship with my bandmate Joel, at a conference after I had shared my story. So much healing had already happened by that point, but the place this song was written from was that darkest night, when everything else was stripped away. That choice that I had, that Job had, to offer God worship *before* the victory, *before* the comfort, *before* the rescue, is a choice that we only have in moments of brokenness. What a gift to give Jesus. We won't be able to give it to Him when new creation is restored, all is made right, and suffering is no more. Only here, only now, can I give Him the fragrant perfume of my suffering, poured out on His feet, mingled with my tears, a declaration of my trust.

The lyrics of this song have been somewhat controversial. I have no desire to defend myself, but I do want to make sure that misunderstanding doesn't impede ministry. So please hear me - I do NOT believe God slays His beloved ones. The cross answers any questions about God's intentions for us. The language we used is referencing Job 13:15, in which Job reaches the height of his emphatic assertion that *nothing* could cause him to question God's goodness & love. This kind of faith makes us dangerous against the powers of darkness. Our loyalty to God has no price tag. We do not make demands of the God of the universe in exchange for our faithfulness. We are abandoned and fully surrendered, holding nothing back.

Of course, as Job's story unfolds, God's restoration & generosity win the day, as they have in my life. I am happily remarried to a man who walked through the same fire as I did and came out refined. We have a beautiful blended family, with our miracle daughter as our cherry on top. Everything that was stolen from me has been restored - marriage, children, mental wholeness - with increase. This is what God does! When we give Him our pain and our trust, He makes a heavenly exchange, giving us healing and hope.

All of this is summed up in Jesus - slain, broken, and the world quaked. Yet *THIS* is what won the victory for us, and we are wrapped up in His resurrection and life!

I hope this song blesses you, and invites you into deeper surrender and trust.

Grace Street

It's funny how a place - inanimate, silent, objective - can feel like a partner in my memory. The Grace Street house saw so much.

The week we moved in, I felt a peace there, a warmth. It didn't match the temperature of my marriage - I knew something was wrong with that. But I was certain that as we settled into a new season, all would be made right. This house felt like it could become home.

As I unpacked the boxes, the lies started to unpack as well. Those walls heard months of two voices, mostly mine. Unanswered questions, pleadings for connection, appeals for honesty, met with paltry deference at best, silence at worst.

“What's wrong? Why won't you look me in the eyes? What can I do? Who is texting you? Where are you going? Why were you gone all night?”

The truth came, and my foundation cracked. The Grace Street house stood steady.

The walls heard my wailing, now. Choked sobs of a young mother desperate for air. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. The Grace Street house hosted my own personal hell, as I stared for hours at her ceilings, sobbed into her floors. She held no answers, but she held firm. Women streamed in and out of her doors. Meals, gifts, listening ears, comforting arms. A flood of sisters stood between me and despair.

Those next months were a lifetime. As the trauma gave way to grief, I was both soft and strong. My veneer stripped away, the Grace Street house got to see me. The real me. Tear washed, clear eyed, grace filled me. I suffered honestly, deep diving into the pain that occupied the place love once held in my heart. The Grace Street house watched me repack boxes of his things, as I sorted through years of memory and family, trying to make sense of what was his, what was mine. I had thought it was all ours.

My babies, oh my babies! Their wonder and perfection and innocence filled those rooms just as much as my anguish. We started to find a rhythm. The Grace Street house witnessed daily miracles as I found the strength to tickle them every day to make them laugh, to feed and bathe and read and rock them to sleep when they were with me. She saw my tears when my arms ached to hold them on nights they were gone.

That house surrounded me in moments of breakthrough. I found deeper faith. A love that lets go and forgives. A confidence that no matter what is done *to* me, I choose what comes *through* me, and I chose Jesus. The Grace Street house probably got saved, hearing me pray to such a sweet savior. I devoured the Word, immersed myself in worship. My life was held up moment by moment, crying out to the One who never left me. As He walked with me through the fire, I never felt more at home. Every time I turned onto our road and saw that street sign, I was reminded about His grace that never lets me go. One of my best friends, named Grace, lived a few houses down the road. Our boys would play together and she would listen and listen. Grace upon Grace, hemmed me in on all sides.

The Grace Street house echoed the first songs I had written in a decade. Healing washed over me as I poured out my heart, playing that out of tune old piano. The songs started to change from goodbye to longing for the next.

As I healed and strengthened and steadied, that house heard me laugh again. She started buzzing with more activity. Friends and church family and band mates came and went. My sister & her family of 6 moved in with us for a few months after their time in Canada, and we started to look for a bigger house. Not everything was about the divorce anymore. I got a second job and began to think about what was next for me. The mirrors in the house witnessed as I got all dolled up for my first date as a single mom. I bet she saw the light in my eyes - I knew I was a catch.

In God's amazing timing, I met Severin. As I reflect on my time in that home, I am so grateful that we started building our love while I was still there. The same walls that saw my life fall apart, saw it come back together. I already felt whole when I met him, but it didn't take long to see that God would make us stronger together than we'd ever been apart. The place where I have some of my most bitter memories is also the place where I have some of the sweetest.

Echos of God's grace followed me through years and miles and memories. The birth of my daughter, whose middle name is Grace, was another signpost of God's goodness. Unmerited favor, woven in and out of every season. I used to live in a house on Grace, and now a little firecracker bearing that name runs through the halls of this new home.

It's been years since I've seen that house, but I pray that whoever lives in that cute little bungalow on Grace Street is wrapped up in the same Grace that has followed me my whole life long.