"Chains shall He break...and in His name all oppression shall cease."

I adore my little abode.  She has been a haven of rest for healing these last few years.  The first few months were rocky.  My former best friend, lover, and protector had threatened my life and was stalking me - but my "family" was just two miles down the road, my landlord, two doors down, and on the other side of my duplex was an armed officer.  God had ordained that I live in this precious place.  Sometime I'll tell you the amazing story of how it came to be.  

Today is an anniversary filled with pain.  But, I have so much to do - poinsettias to deliver, a ham to find (I forgot to order one from our friends at Honey Baked hams - eek), gifts to finish crocheting, and a sweet baby gift to deliver... but I can't seem to leave my haven.

The struggle is real.

I've been awake and ready to go since 8am.  It's now 3pm.

My family is gathering 2 hours away for a Chinese dinner, and I can't leave.

My heart aches so for Kip.  for all we lost, for all he gave up when he started drinking, for the anguish he must have felt that Christmas Eve 3 years ago.  I remember it as clearly as if it was 2 minutes ago.  The greatest sorrow I've ever known washed over me, and I wept for him.  I hadn't seen him face to face in 10 months.  But, I was driving to our church's Christmas Eve service and I almost had to pull over for the flood of tears that erupted from my heart.  The sorrow was so great, as we passed a flame from a tiny lit candle from one to another, I prayed deep within my heart for God to have tender mercy on this man that I loved so deeply for so long - even if it meant that Kip die in order to be released from his torment.

Little did I know that, at that very same moment, Kip was passed out on the floor surrounded by dozens and dozens of empty bottles.  He would soon be found by our neighbor and the paramedics who knocked down the door to rescue him.

oh that they hadn't rescued him... because now he's in a nursing home.  He can't do anything for himself, and doesn't have a clue where or who he is.  His life is over even though his body is living; and it's just so tragic.

Why didn't he reach out to God for help?  Why didn't he receive the friendship and grace that so many men offered him?  Why couldn't he admit that he needed help?

Why did he let shame take the place of grace as ruler of his heart?  

...

and why am I letting this surprise of renewed grief steal the joy that God has so beautifully been creating out of the ashes of my injuries?  

Before you think I'm waxing Pollyanna theology, my favorite definition of Joy was written by a mama who's baby boy gave up much like Kip did.  She calls Joy  "the settled assurance that God is in control of all the details of my life, the quiet confidence that ultimately everything is going to be alright, and the determined choice to praise God in every situation."

(deep breath)

So, let's go get some ham.  :)   I'll be the one with ear buds humming this verse (probably on repeat):

His law is love and His gospel is peace. 

Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother. 

And in his name all oppression shall cease. 

Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we, 

With all our hearts we praise His holy name.