But in these past weeks—almost two months—the “to dos” have changed into “I don’t know what to do.” I have literally heard myself say that out loud to no one in particular: Alone in my room at night, waking up in the morning, walking around in my empty house, out in the yard, sitting in my car—“I don’t know what to do.”
Sure, don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty to do. There’s been so much to figure out. So many phone calls, meetings, decisions. So many new things to learn. Things Rick always handled which now have become my tasks. There’s a graduation party to plan for Bella and all the senior stuff that comes along with this month. There’s a house to sell and that alone creates a massive to do list: Touch up paint, clean out closets, wash the windows, trips to Goodwill. You get it. A zillion things to do.
And yet hanging heavy across my shoulders is this constant feeling of “I don’t know what to do.”
It feels so odd. I have always known what to do. Always. Even when the cancer came, I still knew what to do. I knew how to take my meds and schedule my appointments and begin juicing and listen to my doctors and pay attention to my results.
But this is different.
It is like a foreign entity has taken over my body. Even though I am still doing all the things, because let’s face it, I must. Even though I am pressure washing the brick patio or paying the bills, I still find myself untethered at times. Unmoored. Not faithless, just floundering a bit. Unsteady. Unsure. Wobbly. Weak. Just after Rick’s passing a foal was born at the farm down the street from us. I’ve been watching her these past many weeks as she stays close by her mama’s side. In those first days she was so unsteady on her feet. I stopped and stared at her so many times as she seemed to be the only thing in this world to which I could truly relate. This little filly who was probably wondering “how did I even get here?”
I’ve always known how to do the next thing. How to put one foot in front of the other. Over the years I have often given the advice to hurting kids or friends or family members, “Just do the next right thing.” That’s it. That’s all. And, whereas, that is true, it isn’t always that simple. I’m learning that now. At least that’s what I’m finding out in this massive battle of sorrow. The game is different. The rules have changed. There actually aren’t any rules. It is a daily slogging through tough stuff while draped in a garment of heavy grief.
And so I cry out to the empty house, “I don’t know what to do!” Sometimes I scream it. Because it is an absolute mixture of sorrow and anger and maybe, lately, a touch of what feels like insanity.
Recently, I was reminded of a passage in 2 Chronicles 20. Let’s face it, 2 Chronicles isn’t a place in which I regularly hang out much. But one verse in particular came across my path and strangely it has kept coming.
2 Chronicles 20 tells the story of King Jehoshaphat when he is given the not so great news that a vast army is heading his way to decimate his people. He knows this isn’t going to go well. His people are no match for what is coming at them. It's too big. Too much. Too impossible. After giving them his very best rallying king speech, he ends it with this humble, but incredibly honest statement:
"We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on you.”
Sound familiar? Jehoshaphat utters that very same phrase which has been on repeat in my head. Almost word for word.
We. Do. Not. Know. What. To. Do.
King or no king, he really did feel that. But God, in His mercy, didn’t leave him there alone with this hopelessness. The story continues when the spirit of the Lord speaks up and says, “Listen, King Jehoshaphat and all who live in Judah and Jerusalem! This is what the Lord says to you: ‘Do not be afraid or discouraged because of this vast army. For the battle is not yours, but God’s.”
Let’s stop here for a minute. “For the battle is not yours, but God’s.” If this is true, Jody doesn’t have to know what to do. She is not holding the battle plan in her own hands. She can retire her clipboard and stop trying to make sense of the to do list. She can even stop trying to make sense of what has been done. This is God’s battle and only He can fight it for her.
But there’s even more to Jehoshaphat’s story —
“Tomorrow march down against them. They will be climbing up by the Pass of Ziz, and you will find them at the end of the gorge in the Desert of Jeruel. You will not have to fight this battle. Take up your positions; stand firm and see the deliverance the Lord will give you, Judah and Jerusalem. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. Go out to face them tomorrow, and the Lord will be with you.’”
Stopping again, because I don’t want any of us to miss this. What is it God is asking me to do?
“Stand firm and see the deliverance the Lord will give you.”
That’s pretty clear: Stand firm and see.
And then the final instruction is really the kicker for me. Instead of fighting, “Jehoshaphat appointed men to sing to the Lord and to praise Him for the splendor of his holiness as they went out at the head of the army, saying: “Give thanks to the Lord, for his love endures forever.” Yes, you are reading that correctly, the people about to be under attack were encouraged to sing. TO SING. To worship! And while they were singing and praising God, their enemies in confusion all began to fight one another and basically destroyed each other.
When Jehoshaphat's people stopped singing and looked over the cliff they saw before them in the desert below “only dead bodies lying on the ground; no one had escaped.”
Can you imagine that scene? I’m not sure my writing is doing it justice. You might want to go get a Bible and read 2 Chronicles 20 through yourself. Because it really is something to behold. There was no way Jehoshaphat was going to win this war on his own. There was absolutely no possibility of him or his people making it out of this alive. God had to do it for him.
And, I guess that’s exactly where I am right now at this almost two month mark of Rick’s death. There’s no way I am going to be able to do this. I don’t know what to do, but I am sure I must do this:
Keep my eyes on Jesus —even when all I can seem to see is my pain.
Stand firm—even when I wobble a bit like that newborn foal.
Worship God—even when it feels strange and completely out of place.
"The fear of God came on all the surrounding kingdoms when they heard how the Lord had fought against the enemies of Israel. And the kingdom of Jehoshaphat was at peace, for his God had given him rest on every side.”
At peace, for God had given him rest on every side. That is my prayer right now. That is what needs to be at the very top of my to do list — That God will give me and my children peace and rest on every side.
Maybe you’re in a situation where you too just don’t know what to do. You are perplexed or in pain. You are confused or in crisis. Your world feels like it has blown up and you are barely hanging on. If that’s you, then I want you to know I am there too. I am right there in the middle of all that mess as well. But, I’m pretty sure God led me to the story of Jehoshaphat so that I could help lead you to Jesus and the way He wants us to bring our burdens to Him. Yes, even the most brutal, ugly, broken burdens. Even the battles which seem too hard to face let alone win. Even those. Especially those. Bring them to Him.
Lay them at His feet.
Look into His face.
And remember the story of Jehoshaphat: “For the battle is not yours, but God’s.
