A New Refrain, My Weapon
A New Refrain, My Weapon
Zoe S. Erler
5:45 a.m. on a slightly snowy April morning: The dim morning light brought a fleeting hope of possibility for another day in my little corner of the Midwestern life I live with five other humans. But even before my slippered feet begin to descend the stairs to brew my morning tea, the thought—initially clouded by a disorienting dream—returns.
Instantly, according to my well-recited mental script, I enter the fog. I can’t tell if I am up or down. All the truth I have been taught in Sunday School, sermons, and serious books slip through my fingers, and with it the sense that I’m a part of a cosmic joke. The idea embeds itself inside my neurons, flickers with every synapse, militantly pounding out verses of the sickening song: “You are stuck. You didn’t sign up for this life. It’s not fair.”
And instead of attaching my shield, I lower my protection and allow the lying refrain to penetrate my heart: “Is God really good?”
*
It was true that the past decade had been a hard one. Blessed in many ways, but hard. Four miscarriages had preceded the births of three living children. An international adoption that was supposed to take six months dragged out for three years. Two rounds of postpartum depression. Periodic spikes in a 20-year history of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. And a pandemic year that had unleashed a new level of familial stress.
Underneath these external realities, an internal narrative of doubt and distrust, always present but usually more latent, began gaining a daily presence and power in my thought life.
They were the ancient snake-inspired questions, flavored with my own unique personality: Why would a good God force me into an existence I don’t always like? How did evil come to be, really? I know God is sovereign, but is He authentically good? Am I really saved?
Over and over again. Question, doubt, distrust. Rinse, repeat.
*
In C.S. Lewis’ fourth book of the Narnian trilogy, The Silver Chair, two human children, Jill and Eustace—accompanied by their Marsh-wiggle friend Puddleglum—find themselves in an Underland world where they meet a young man who claims to have been rescued by the queen of this world. At night, he says, he is bound by a dreadful spell so violent that the queen must have him tied to a chair to protect himself and everyone around him. In reality, the witch has cast an enchantment upon the young man, such that he forgets he is the rightful prince of Narnia, only remembering his true identity while he is bound in the chair.
When the children and Puddleglum meet the witch queen, she attempts to cast a similar spell on them by way of a song. “She took out a musical instrument rather like a mandolin. She began to play it with her fingers— a steady, monotonous thrumming that you didn’t notice after a few minutes. But the less you noticed it, the more it got into your brain and your blood. This also made it hard to think. After she had thrummed for a time (and the sweet smell was now strong) she began speaking in a sweet, quiet voice. ‘Narnia?’ she said. ‘Narnia? I have often heard your Lordship utter that name in your ravings. Dear Prince, you are very sick. There is no land called Narnia.’ ”
She continues her thrumming and her lying, attempting to convince the children that there is no such place as Narnia. In a heroic moment, Puddleglum rouses himself and spouts out all the truth that he can call to mind: “‘I’ve seen the sky full of stars. I’ve seen the sun coming up out of the sea of a morning and sinking behind the mountains at night. And I’ve seen him up in the midday sky when I couldn’t look at him for brightness.’”
And suddenly, the children and the prince come alert, “and looked at one another like people newly awakened.”
*
Like Puddleglum, every day, I must make the choice to call out the witch’s song for what it is: a full-scale attack on my soul from a Serpent who hummed the first sickening line: “Did God really say…?”
I make the choice to remember: That I am not my own, but that I belong to Another. That I am called to something beyond myself, my questions, and my feelings. And that in the simple act of trudging down the creaky wooden stairs to turn on the kettle and begin the breakfast preparations, I am joining Christ in His war against the Serpent’s song.
And always, in the choice of obedience, the goodness slowly begins to seep back into my groggy and battle-weary consciousness, and I begin to hear the faint melody of the new song:
“All is grace. All is grace. All is grace.”
*
Our house is located on the east side of Indianapolis, and in the morning, as the kettle hums its comforting refrain, I return to the sense of being rooted and grounded on this small stretch of earth I call home. Gazing out of the west-facing window at the dawning light coming to rest upon the neighbor’s blooming magnolia—purple blossoms streaking the morning with vibrant color—I remember yesterday’s gift from my six-year-old: a gleaming red and yellow tulip petal.
In seeing the beauty of this day, and remembering yesterday’s, the truth washes over me yet again: “All is grace. All is mercy.” It is the truth that I forget every day when the gloom and darkness thrum, thrum, thrum and threaten to overwhelm, but in remembering, I am awash in hope.
The warble of birds outside the walls of my house. The sky streaked with white and blue and burnt orange. The tulip petal. All Grace.
The banging and waking and murmuring of my two daughters as they search for me every morning. Grace.
The playful banter of my husband and son as they bang the basketball against the backboard every evening before dinner. Grace.
The smeared banana across the face of my toddler as he stretches out his arms to me. Grace.
*
This “all is grace” refrain has become one of my weapons to combat the song of sickness that the devil, like the witch, whispers in my ear every day. The psalmist writes,
“He has put a new song in mouth, even praise to our God.
Many shall see it, and fear, and shall trust in the Lord.”
The words of life and truth form grooves along the ridges of my brain, well-worn pathways that I can pull from the recesses of my consciousness when the counter paths of lies encroach upon me. The more I repeat the words, the more I start to believe that they are true. As I repeat this refrain to myself, slowly I dare to believe it.
I follow along with Paul’s wisdom to “take every thought captive” and I pay heed to the knowledge of neuroscientists, like Dr. Christine Leaf, who defend the idea of neuroplasticity: that a person is not the victim of her damaged mind, but rather that by choosing to think differently, she can actually rewire her brain.
And the turmoil of twisted thoughts, and a tired brain begins to relax. The fears, the anxiety, the OCD-skewed guilt gradually begin to dissipate. The pressure along my shoulders loosens, the gnawing in my stomach subsides. The mental agony buries its head, like a frantic dog spinning slowly to a stop, falling calmly upon its mat. All is grace.
And this is how the brain and the body and the soul learn to walk in step with their Creator. The writer of the Proverbs describes the teaching a parent passes down to their children:
“My son, do not forget my teaching,
but let your heart keep my commandments,
for length of days and years of life
and peace they will add to you.
Let not steadfast love and faithfulness forsake you;
bind them around your neck;
write them on the tablet of your heart.”
In other words, Scriptural truth, God’s way of living, a delight in God’s love, and loving commitment to Him is the only response to old Serpent scripts. Bind these things. Write them. And slowly, they bury their way into my heart.
Paul said, “Not that I have obtained all this or am already made perfect, but I press on that I may lay hold of that for which Christ Jesus my Lord has already laid hold of me.”
For me, this is the writing on the tablet of my heart, the laying hold. The repeating to myself over and over again—truth upon truth—and then taking His hand as He leads me deeper into His melody of life. And through this, even the most painful parts of my story glimpse their grace.
The death of unborn children become a keyhole through which to spy the pain of a Father as He takes the nail to His only beloved Son. Grace.
A lengthy and costly adoption begin to teach the painful price He made to redeem a wayward family. Grace.
Depression, a way to take my own steps next to the Man of sorrows who was acquainted with grief. Grace.
A mental illness that reminds me to fall upon the goodness and kindness of friends every single day. Grace.
A year of turmoil that I don’t yet fully understand, but know that because of everything else I know to be true, I can choose to believe what I can’t yet fully see. I can trust.
All is grace.
Zoe S. Erler
Writer & Editor
Zoe has been previously published in byFaith Magazine, Prison Fellowship and BreakPoint Radio
Photography by Alex Shu