Most every morning when I get up for work, I listen to Scripture from one of my Bible apps. Perhaps it is my nifty Bluetooth speaker or the rich, resonant, crystal-clear voice of David Suchet, but I find it easy to stay engaged with the Word as it is narrated.

One particular day, I felt a nudge to listen to Psalm 119. Resonating with the heart cry of the Psalmist, I found myself nodding my head and agreeing in prayer. That was... until the narrator got to verse 108. "Accept, Lord, the willing praise of my mouth, and teach me your laws."

"Willing praise," I thought. "Willing praise, what is that? And if there's willing praise... does that mean there is such a thing as unwilling praise? And if praise is offered unwillingly, is it really praise at all?"

Those questions began to part a spiritual fog I had been wandering in for weeks. You see, while I feel like I am accustomed to navigating experiences of grief, I found my heart crushed by the departure of two people near and dear to me as they followed God's call to minister at another place. And, honestly, my emotions were crippled so much so that I quit writing because I had nothing to say. No tidy lessons, no lofty thoughts, no eternal perspective, but just, as William Young describes in The Shack, "The Great Sadness" - a heavy quilt of saturating melancholy. Truth be told, I was functioning on emotional auto-pilot looking for Light in the thick fog of grief.

Perhaps this sounds a bit odd having walked with God for a long time, but, hearing the prayer of the Psalmist in Psalm 119:108 equipped me with vocabulary to finally talk with God about that tender place of pain. You see when they told me they were leaving, I couldn't even talk about it with God. Maybe I was being petulant, but it was like what the Psalmist said in 73:16, "But when I considered how to understand this, it was too great an effort and too painful," so I just shut down.

The language of, "Accept, Lord, the willing praise of my mouth" was a literal lamp to my feet to take a step in actually praying about the meaning and implications of this loss. And while it may be a bit disrespectful, in broken desperation I prayed, "Lord, I am not sure I have 'willing praise,' right now. Frankly, it feels more like 'unwilling praise' because of the sadness of my heart. I confess that rather than operating in a lack of integrity, asking You to accept something that wasn't true, I simply chose to sink down into silence. But now, oh God, knowing there is nowhere else to go, I humbly ask, as a starting place, that you would accept even the unwilling praise of my heart. I am asking You to turn it into willing praise."

As I opened my heart, the words of Jay Rouse's "Beyond My Understanding" came pouring out. "Lord, I give You all my failures, I give You all my loss. I take the pain within me and I lay it at Your cross. I will not pick it up again, I leave it all behind. I choose to trust and to obey and to claim Your peace as mine. Beyond my understanding, beyond the scope of what I see, lies the promise for the claiming, of God's peace that's meant for me. Like a cool refreshing fountain, like the calm of a silent sea, beyond my understanding, God's peace waits for me." Amen.

I can testify that over these couple of months, I look in the rear-view mirror much less. I am expressing gratitude for the things God has done, the things God is doing, and the things that God will do. God is, indeed, turning my unwilling praise into willing praise, expectant in faith, confident in God's intentional kindness, and filled with hope in the One who knows the plans He has for us.

Perhaps as you are reading this, there is a tender place of pain in your heart. And wanting to honor God, you have silenced your voice rather than offering even unwilling praise. Beloved, bidden, or unbidden, God is present. The One who is near to the brokenhearted is near to you and offers comfort to all who are in sorrow, strength to those crushed by despair, beauty for ashes, and joy for sadness. Go ahead, talk to God, listen, rest in the firm gentleness of His embrace, and, I believe He will become the lifter of your head [Psalm 3:3].

With you, I am looking forward to the day when our testimony will be akin to the words of Tommy Walker. "Where there once was only hurt, You gave Your healing hand. Where there once was only pain, You brought comfort like a friend. I feel the sweetness of Your love piercing my darkness. I see the bright and morning sun as it ushers in Your joyful gladness. You've turned my mourning into dancing again, You've lifted my sorrows. And I can't stay silent, I must sing for Your joy has come."

Precious one, you are seen, you are heard, and you are loved. May your unwilling praise be transformed into willing praise, and may you be expectant in faith, confident in God's intentional kindness, and filled with hope in the One who knows the plans He has for you. Amen.

[Author's note: In rereading this blog entry, I am aware that it may sound, perhaps, overly dramatic, excessively emotional, and obsessively self-centered. That is not my intent. Upon reflection, I believe my digital verbosity comes from the breaching of a flowing heart that was dammed with grief. Grace and Peace, JCD]

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