Rage and Grace
The first notes of Amazing Grace float from the organ through the sanctuary, and my throat seizes up in a knot.
My Dad baritones the song, tall above me by my side, as my own voice wobbles and threatens to break.
My inner monologue reminds me why I almost skipped church this morning.
Bend, Oregon, lives wrecked, a school, an elementary school for God’s sake, entire families forever destroyed by violence, horror, unthinkable pain, the little girl in glasses, she’s fighting for her life because she went to school and this country chose gun rights over her right to live.
The voice inside my head screams and I want to walk out of church and out on a God who could allow this cruelty.
I know deep down below my fury that it’s not God’s fault but man’s but still, my rage needs somewhere to go. God can handle my screaming heart breaking to pieces right here in this pew.
Verse after verse and now my body is roaring as I gulp at the air and the tears wet my cheeks, chin and shirt. My coffee scented napkin comes in handy with this unexpected deluge of grief, brought on by a song.
A song of grace, the notes so familiar, they ring with South Georgia memories of girlhood and church plays, of confirmation Sundays and pot luck suppers with 13 layer chocolate cakes, each layer so delicate and precise, crackling fried chicken, homestyle macaroni and cheese in 9 x 13 pyrexes lined up, and all the green bean casseroles and macaroni salads that I would skip, favoring all the fried meats and sugar soaked sweets instead.
All of these thoughts crash together at once, a freight train barrelling through my mind while the congregation continues on,
“Through many dangers, toils and snaresI have already come;‘Tis Grace that brought me safe thus farAnd Grace will lead me home.”
And on the note of “home” in this third stanza, I am completely undone. My head dips and shoulders shake now with the effort not to wail. My Dad’s steady voice carries on; he’s focused on the lyrics displayed on the big screens in front. In his deep voice I hear wells of gratitude for the grace we’ve received through the years, and the torrent in my head slows down, the flickering images of terror and pain slowly recede.
For once I’m grateful for our church not skipping any verses, all six refrains are just enough Grace for all my buried pain to surface and spill.
“When we’ve been there ten thousand yearsBright shining as the sunWe’ve no less days to sing God’s praiseThan when we’ve first begun.”
I join back in for the last verse, clutching my sodden napkin, feeling raw and mournful but also grateful, for my family lined up beside me down the entire pew and for the gift of tears. Because I wouldn’t want any other heart but mine, tender to the point of crying ferociously in church, when over the course of six verses, a song’s familiar notes break me open and heal me again.