O Love That Will Not Let Me Go
“O love that will not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in Thee.
I give Thee back the life I owe,
That in Thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.”

Text: George Matheson
Music: Albert L. Peace

Jesus and I broke up.  We’d been going steady for quite a few years.  We began as friends when I was a little girl and over the years our relationship had grown into something deeper. I was sure we’d end up together, forever. That was before my life began to unravel. It was an ugly, lonely, heart-breaking time. He and I didn’t talk much during that time. I think it was my fault. I was too sad. Too broken. Also, I’d found two new friends, Cabernet and Merlot. My new friends kept me company almost every afternoon and often well into the evening back then.  They helped me to feel less unraveled, less unloved, and less broken. 

I’d gone to The Journey the fall after I’d begun to unravel.  I’d signed up, unsigned up, and re-signed up with much trepidation.  I think I was afraid to face the skeletons lurking in my closet.  The skeletons that were beginning to stir. 

Just months before signing up to go to The Journey, I’d found out that my childhood abuser was dying. My mother had called to tell me the news. Talking with her that day, I felt angry and betrayed. I cried tears of frustration. She’d asked me why I was so upset.  I’d yelled into the phone that I, too, had been worth protecting.  She’d protected the others, but not me.  She’d said matter of factly,  “I was a bad mom.”  Silence. 

In the days and months following my abuser’s diagnosis, my family of origin, the abuser’s church family (the church in which I’d grown up), and many others rallied around the abuser. I guess dying trumps abuse.  The skeletons danced wildly to a loud dissonant cacophony of scratching, screeching music that played non-stop inside my head day and night. I continued to unravel.   

My abuser died the spring after I’d been to The Journey. I discovered that life does not stop just because yours is coming undone. I went through the motions of making dinner, mowing the grass, working, and caring for grandchildren occasionally.  I did it with a listlessness in my spirit.  Some days the broken strands were neatly tucked, and other days they were flying about like dandelion seeds in a windstorm.  I was scared for my sanity.  I was scared for my life.  

I wanted to call Jesus and tell him how much I missed him and needed him, and that I longed to go steady with him again.

I treated myself as others were treating me by telling myself that I needed to suck it up, deal with it, and get over it. I was failing miserably at all three.

I longed to feel His presence and peace, but when I’d try to draw close to Him, all I felt was numbness, emptiness, and shame. It felt like He had abandoned me just as my family of origin had. I ached for Him to knit the dirty, tangled, unravelled strands back together into a whole person instead of the mess I’d become. I desperately needed Him to rescue me from myself, and to love me back to Himself.

Though the knitting back together is not completed, it feels like the strands are less tangled and less undone. I’m starting to see more “beauty for ashes” in my life. Looking back, I see this as one chapter of my life, not my entire life. I’ve chosen to believe that Jesus was always there and that He always cared.  I was just too shattered, too angry, and too broken to feel His presence or to hear His voice.   

Thankfully, He never stopped gifting me with: sunrises, sunsets,  a husband who loves me well, children who care about their mama,  grandchildren who bring me joy, a few faithful friends, gardens, music, stories, laughter, tears, summer storms, Lake Michigan waves, and the promise that He loves me with an everlasting love. I cling to that love with my entire being.  

My beloved,
the one who knit you together
in your mother’s womb.

Even now,
I am picking up your unravelled strands
and knitting them back together.

None of it is too tattered,
too dirty,
too broken for me.

I am taking what Satan meant for harm
and turning it into good.

Rest assured,



Barbara was a little girl who didn’t talk until she was three years old, and yet, ironically, she became a lover of words and stories. And the telling of stories. She is another to three great kids, grandmother to ten fun grandchildren, and wife to one amazing man who has loved her steadily through thick and thin. She feels great affection for her people, her two dogs, sunshine, cowboy boots, art, music, books, sunsets, Lake Michigan, and laughter. She forever grateful for a Savior who has never let her go, even in the darkest of times.