on following the God who holds our tears

an exodus story

There is a group of Psalms that some call the Passover Psalms that are traditionally sung during the Passover Sedar. They are assumed to be the "hymns" referred to in Mark 14:26, shared by Jesus and the disciples as they went to the Mount of Olives right before the crucifixion.

They consist of Psalms 113-118 and they celebrate the Exodus story and interestingly enough, there are several lines that come verbatim from a different song-- the one Hannah sings when God delivers her from barrenness and she bears a child.

The story of Exodus--the story of being oppressed and then rescued by a Deliverer who hears the cries of his people--is both a macro story that can be traced from the Fall to the Cross, and also a micro story that can be traced in small individual lives throughout Scripture.

And barrenness is one of the most vivid ways this story arch is displayed, not just in history, but also in our world today.

I recently listened to a series of podcasts on the Bible Project about “the Exodus Way” and at one point in the conversation Tim Mackie says, "Any time humans are unable to be what they were created to be, they need to be rescued or delivered."

This is, of course, what Moses gave us a pattern of until the greater Moses arrived, Jesus. The one who provides the ultimate deliverance.

This has been strongly on my mind over the past couple months because I'd been walking through three years of oppression and loss-- seven early miscarriages, months and months of grief in so many areas, deep wrestling and fighting to hang onto faith through what felt like abandonment-- which all brought me to a place where I chose (again) to follow the Deliverer, even though the path we were on didn't look much like a promise land.

For the Israelites, God had enough within Himself to do the impossible. To lead them from Egypt, to cross the Red Sea, and then to give them food and water as long as they needed, and eventually to cross the Jordan into the promise land.

For us, the gospel is the promise that just like God heard the cries of his people in slavery, he also hears our cries today. Easter, which we just celebrated, is the rejoicing over the resurrection that displays God's power today like the miracle of the Exodus from Egypt displayed his power then.

The resurrection is the ultimate "enoughness" that conquers the last enemy.

One of the best quotes I've heard to explain the miracle of the resurrection is by Frederick Buechner.

"Resurrection," he says, '“means the worst thing is never the last thing."

---

I shared some of my story from these past few years in a series of social media posts in early February, having finally come to the place to articulate the ways the wrestling with my faith had left me limping but also blessed.

(You can read the full transcript of those posts here: https://natashametzler.substack.com/p/blizzards-failures-and-the-shepherd)

And I didn't know then.

It wasn't even a thought on my mind.

But I realized it soon after. Just a week after the last post in that series went live, I was spending nearly every morning curled up in my kitchen chair fighting off nausea.

After 7 miscarriages in 3 years, I know all my body’s signals well. I didn't even have to test. I just sat and quietly cried as I braced myself for death, because death spent years with the upper hand in my story.

In this world, death still has power. We're all going to fall to it at some point. But every little while the roar of the Lamb still moves through the earth and we're all reminded that death's days are numbered because the Life Giver already defeated it.

---

On April 1st, I sat in a room while I watched a very-much-alive baby move on the ultrasound screen with a strong steady heartbeat of 169 beats per minute.

Another Exodus story, a deliverance, a reminder that God still hears the cries of his people--that he heard MY cries of grief. Not just over my lost babies, but over the loss that sin has marked into my life by my choices and by the choices of other people.

An old Rich Mullins song came to mind one day last week and I put it on while walking and ended up ugly crying as my feet moved across the gravel road near my house.

"There in the Sahara winds

Jesus heard the whole world cry

For the healin' that would flow from His own scars

The world was singin'

My deliverer is comin', my deliverer is standin' by

My deliverer is comin', my deliverer is standin' by

He will never break His promise

He has written it upon the sky..."

For years God never breaking his promise looked like him faithful walking beside me in grief.

Today, his never breaking his promise looks like my waistline expanding again and another tiny heart beating wildly inside me.

Six years ago our story of infertility collided with a surprise miracle baby who is now our delightful 5 year old. I said then that every day felt like Christmas morning. The excitement was tangible. The joy reverberated off the walls of our home.

This miracle baby is different. The six years between these pregnancies have left me scarred deeply. The miscarriages, the struggles of our older kids, the way choices have stolen so many beautiful things from us, the wavering of my own faith as I grieved and grieved and grieved.

But something else happened in that time that exists along with the grief-- I changed. Everyone does when they encounter grief, but I changed for the better and I know it has been the grace of God. It has been his faithful, transformative work in me, carefully uprooting my own sinful slave-minded tendencies and walking me toward freedom.

So this miracle that's growing inside me when I'm older than I'd planned, carrying more sadness than I ever wanted, also carries something deeper than the lighthearted Christmas joy.

Remember the feeling in Narnia when Father Christmas arrives after years and years of winter? That was our first baby. Laughter and beauty and delight.

And remember the feeling when Aslan appears after the stone table is broken? That's what this pregnancy feels like. We're still crying over all the sadness we've seen, but this gift is proof that we were never as alone as we felt.

Both are joy, but different types.

---

He holds our tears, Scripture tells us.

And sometimes? Sometimes the lamb roars. Sometimes there is a deeper magic than sin’s destruction at work.

Sometimes babies grow in wombs that have seen more death than life, and we watch with anticipation-- still battling fear of death’s power, but clinging with both hands to the promise of God's presence and grace.

Sometimes we hold out our grief and God gives us hope.

Sometimes we stand up and turn our hearts and minds toward the One Who Is Enough and Who Will Be Enough, no matter how many ways death attacks us, no matter how much grief pounds against us-- we just hang tight to Jesus, the good Shepherd, the Deliverer, the God Who Holds Our Tears.

And we trust.

Because we are never as alone as we sometimes feel.