From Where Is My Help To Come?
When I was 19, I spent a semester living in Granada, Spain, and while those months were quite the adventure, one of the things I missed the most were the rich green forests of the Adirondack Mountains. While Granada is situated between a mountain range of its own, the dusty, dry hills were nothing compared to the lush forests and rivers of the Adirondacks in my opinion. I’ve spent most of my life in the foothills of these mountains, and my childhood is filled with memories of hiking, swimming, and exploring them. Though neither the grandest nor the most famous of the American mountain ranges, I’ve always loved these ancient hills. Naturally, whenever I hear the opening lines of Psalm 121 “I lift up my eyes to the hills, from where is my help to come?” I think first of the Adirondacks.
This past weekend, we recited this same psalm in church. Dad’s sermon that followed stuck with me in a unique way — and in my time as a PK, I’ve heard my share. He talked about resurrection in a way I’d never thought about before. He spoke of it as restoration, in body, mind, and spirit. As I meditated on that line from the psalm, it was this thought of complete restoration, the restoration of our relationships, the restoration of this earth, that really stuck with me.
“I lift up my eyes to the hills, from where is my help to come?”
I’ve seen a lot of death this year. It’s not been easy. Several members of our congregation passed away around Easter, from old age and cancer. Some deaths are straightforward, you see them coming, you have a chance to say goodbye. That doesn’t diminish the grief of those deaths in any way, but sometimes deaths are particularly difficult, for reasons beyond how or when they pass. One of these such deaths was that of my paternal grandmother, who passed away from COVID shortly after Easter. I told very few people about my grandmother’s death — my boss (so I could explain my request for the afternoon off), my then-fiance and now-husband, my inlaws, and eventually a single friend who also lost an elderly relative to the pandemic. I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t know how to explain how I felt. My dad’s relationship with his mother was strained, and I hadn’t seen her since I was 15 years old. She had faded due to dementia before coronavirus set in. While her death didn’t spark a grief for the women I knew in the traditional way, it sparked a grief for the relationship with her I never could have. My heart broke for my father, as he grappled with the complicated grief I knew he must be feeling, and his regret that he never got a chance to say goodbye.
As Dad preached about restoration in body, mind and spirit, I found myself thinking about my grandmother. Sometimes there are things in our lives that seem impossible to fix, and yet, somehow reconciliation is possible. Often I think we mistake reconciliation for an apology. We boil it down to the simple formula of apology + forgiveness, and then we all move forward like nothing ever happened. Most of the time, that is all the situation needs, but not when we need reconciliation. Using this formulaic when approaching reconciliation overlooks the question of restoration. True restoration is returning to right relationship with each other, and with God. For reconciliation and restoration to occur, we need a real acknowledgement of brokenness coupled with action that demonstrates our repentance; we must turn around and live differently than before. Everytime this happens, I believe it is a miracle. Everytime this happens, God is at work. Sometimes, though, due to any number of circumstances, that kind of restoration seems impossible, whether that’s in our own personal lives or in the brokenness and injustice of our society. Or our very bodies need restoration. Sometimes we need restoration of spirit. Sometimes we need restoration of soul. This kind of restoration comes from God alone.
Accepting the feeling of impossibility should be something that causes deep sorrow. Yet, in it I find a strange hope. Accepting that there are parts of this broken world that we can’t fix isn’t the end. It is the beginning. We aren’t doomed to our brokenness. Instead, I believe in a God who has the power to bring healing into all the broken places into this world and our lives. Christ’s death and resurrection on the cross is the action that allows all of creation to come back into union with God. He restores us, in a very real and physical way: our world, our relationships, and ourselves. That is the promise of the Resurrection. So I look to the mountains, these great observers of our world, and think of the God that made them and me. I know that He is our help, and He will restore us all, in body, mind, and soul.
I lift up my eyes to the hills.
From where does my help come?
My help comes from the Lord,
who made heaven and earth.
He will not let your foot be moved;
he who keeps you will not slumber.
Behold, he who keeps Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.
The Lord is your keeper;
the Lord is your shade on your right hand.
The sun shall not strike you by day,
nor the moon by night.
The Lord will keep you from all evil;
he will keep your life.
The Lord will keep
your going out and your coming in
from this time forth and forevermore.
Psalm 121, ESV
