He Will Restore What We Return

Through the lyric of an unknown song, Jen Scheuermann comes to see how God wants to restore her shattered heart.

It was a lyric from an unknown song. And it had been chasing me for days:

You will restore what we return to You. 

He drove my favorite car.

When I saw him park his red Acura Integra, I may have strategically timed my exit from my own car, timing it so we could walk together. He likes to say I stalked him. I like to remind him that he spoke to me first.

I was home for the summer and knew him only two months before I returned to college, but that was all it took. “I can see myself marrying him,” I confided to my sister. Six years younger than me, I knew she wouldn’t judge my words; to her I could speak freely. 

It’s been 26 years since that random July morning when I spotted his car. Twenty-six years, one big wedding, two sons, two cats, three dogs, and five houses. Oh … and one diagnosis I hadn’t realized would be joining us. 

You will restore what we return to You. 

In good times and in bad. In sickness and in health.

Like all married couples, we’ve endured our share of stress: a struggle with infertility, challenging relationships with extended family, job layoffs, and a catastrophic hurricane quickly come to mind. And although I didn’t choose those struggles, I can see they’ve made us stronger. 

But over ten years ago, we found ourselves waist-deep in the turbulent waters of a new storm. A storm that developed and intensified slowly, right in front of me, though I was somehow unaware. In hindsight it’s odd that I couldn’t see it, as my current vantage point easily reveals its presence years before a doctor named it. And this storm? Well, it doesn’t really feel like we’re stronger because of it. Instead, as it bears down on us whenever and however it chooses, we typically just feel more battered.

You will restore what we return to You. 

Fierce winds and crushing waves. 

I sat on the cold bathroom floor, trying to read the words on my phone through my tears. It didn’t matter. I knew what the text said. I had typed and retyped the words three times, trying to find a better, nicer way, to say what was in my heart. I’d flirted with these feelings in the past, but I’d been wrestling them for weeks. I didn’t want to claim them. I was embarrassed and ashamed of them. But despite great effort, I couldn’t change them. Unable to deny them any longer, I gave in to my quiet sobs and hit send, once again sharing my deepest feelings with my sister: “Sometimes being married to him is the hardest part of my life.” 

You will restore what we return to You.

Laying it down

I’ve spent years telling myself it doesn’t matter. That I love my husband and would say “I do” all over again. That it’s his diagnosis, not mine, so I shouldn’t be upset. As a mother and healthcare provider, I conclude God has called me to a life of caring for others, and this is no different. So I whisper, “Not my will, but Yours,” and try to embrace this role. 

And, of course, I love my husband and would marry him all over again. But as I sat on the floor that day, I slowly considered that maybe it wasn’t so simple. And perhaps my feelings did matter after all.

Maybe acknowledging that this situation is sometimes quite hard, is okay. And the fact that my name is not in the medical chart doesn’t actually mean I’m not affected. Perhaps it’s okay to admit that surrendering the storybook picture I once painted for my marriage is sometimes difficult. That at times I want to scream and kick as I angrily question God’s ways. And maybe it’s okay that sometimes, as I whisper, “Thy will be done,” I also pray God helps my heart catch up with my words.

You will restore what we return to You.

This storm …

It shows up uninvited, infuriating me. 
Some days it demands all I have, draining me.
It tells me I don’t know how to love my husband, crushing me. 
This storm breaks my husband’s spirit, and then it targets my heart as it comes for me.   

You will restore what we return to You.

This storm has broken my heart. It’s in a thousand pieces, scattered across the floor.

He will restore what I return to Him.

But slowly, as this song lyric chased me, I thought I understood what God was asking of me. 

He will restore what I return to Him.

He wants my heart. My very broken heart. He’s asking me to gather each and every splintered fragment and place them all in His hands.

The part angrily grasping at the fairytale marriage it envisioned long ago.
The part that feels helpless and incompetent.
The part filled with sorrow as it watches her husband struggle.
The part worrying about the future.
The part that spies the seemingly easier relationships of others with envy. 
The part that feels lonely and disappointed.
The part that wonders how long good days will last.  
And the part that feels guilty and ashamed for all of these hard feelings.

He will restore what I return to Him.

Click to tweet:
I whisper, “Not my will, but Yours,” and try to embrace this role.  #catholicmom

Collecting all the pieces

I walk to the front of the empty Adoration Chapel, bypassing the pews until I am standing directly before Jesus. Dropping to my knees, I close my eyes and see the shattered pieces of my heart tossed about the floor. I scrounge around, carefully collecting each fragment so I can place them all in His hands. 

I understand that He wants to put my heart back together. That I cannot weather this storm if my heart remains fractured. That only when my heart is again whole will I be able to fulfill the role God has called me to within my marriage.

But then, then I hear Him call my name …

Jen, you’re right that living through this storm may be easier when your heart is not broken. But that’s not why I’m asking for the pieces of your heart. And it's not so you can better fill a specific role. I want to put your heart back together because you are My beloved daughter. And because each time your heart breaks, my own heart aches right along with yours.

Jen, I want to make your heart whole.
Place the pieces in My hands. 
And I will restore what you return to Me. 

Copyright 2022 Jennifer Scheuermann
Images: Canva