Under the Broom Tree

I suppose this is not the most exciting way to begin a new blog, but it’s not so much for the entertainment or enlightenment of others as it is a vehicle for me to process my own journey through grief. If you find it interesting and perhaps even helpful, then I am doubly blessed. If you find it intriguing and thought provoking, then perhaps even you may be blessed as well.

I’ve chosen the blog title “The Broom Tree” from reflecting on the story of the prophet, Elijah, from in the old testament. Elijah had, through the Spirit of God, just accomplished an amazing feat (read about it in 1 Kings, chapter 18). Because of this accomplishment, his life was threatened by a powerful woman; the queen. Filled with fear, he sought refuge under a broom tree, basically an overgrown desert shrub. There, in his despair, he prayed to die.

The Lord did answer Elijah’s prayer, but not the way he desired. Elijah wanted to be released from the pressure of running for his life, instead, an angel met him under the broom tree, fed him, and let him sleep…twice, restoring him for the rest of his journey.

Having recently come through my own intense task, the illness and death of my brother, I found myself struggling to return to normal life.  Sorrow and loss threatened my joy, zapped my energy, and left me apathetic.  Only in times of engaging fully in worshiping through music did I experience the joy and sorrow merge into one, synthesized into a harmony in my spirit.

Here, in the music, is my broom tree, where I am rested and restored for the journey.  In this renewal I am beginning to understand the beauty and usefulness of pain and sorrow, as well and joy, at least in context of my own life.  As I stood by my brothers hospital bed, I sang. I sang favorites from his childhood, and favorites since. I sang songs of hope, and faith, and love. I sang out, uninhibited, of Amazing Grace and It Is Well With My Soul, the words sometimes sticking in my throat. My brother loved music, and I found it an honor to sing for him. And there, in the room where his life would slip  into eternity, I experienced something I will forever treasure, a holy suffering.

And here lies the  paradox: That joy and sorrow, or pain, can co-habitate in a peaceful existence within ones soul.

I am changed. Deeper, maybe? More sad? Definitely. But not less joyful. I have a broom tree under which I can restore when sorrow, or fear, or overwhelm presses in. I have my Elijah Tree. I will keep singing!