My held up heart

An abecedarian pondering the mysteries of God

A normal week slants sideways when fever strikes and sickness takes over and the

baby still needs someone to get her up, feed her food, and play with her all day.

Can you do it? I weakly ask my husband, offering a feeble prayer of thanks for the weekend, for the fact that he’s home, the fact that I’m not alone.

Days slip by as I shiver in bed, take something for my head, drift in and out of dreams,

ebb and flow between somewhat conscious and barely there. Praise God

for His new morning mercies because the fever breaks sometime day 3, and the shakes start to wane, and I feel more like myself again. And yet, the

good feelings only last so long when my phone keeps buzzing with updates about a dearly loved family friend, battling for his life in the same

hospital my Grandma was in when they found that the cancer was too far gone.

I can feel my heart squeeze every time I get a new text, pain pinching my temples, tears pricking my eyes. It feels

just the same and not the same at all. There’s no guidebook to losing someone you love. On a pivotal day, awaiting updates, my Mom and Dad head up to the hospital to sit in the waiting room with his four

kids. They pack a bag with all the leftover snacks from our last ministry event and it turns out, Kind bars and other “healthy” snacks speak the

love language of those worried, prayerful, waiting, wondering sons and daughters. Turns out the little

mercies, the gentle graces are like tiny bursts of air when your life has been turned upside down.

Not even two days later, their dad is gone. We all prayed so fervently, and God’s answer was not to heal this side of Heaven, but to deliver His faithful servant out of his earthly body into

one more glorious than any of us have known. We travel to my Mom’s hometown for his funeral. We hug and hold and cry and breathe and sit in awe and wonder as the

pastor’s words pale in comparison to the rich offering of his four kids. In the midst of their fresh grief, they speak of a man who loved like Jesus. Who left a legacy that will live on in them and their kids and all those who knew and loved him. The pews are filled with

quiet tears and, if I can speak at all for the crowd there, not a single one of us will be the same. His kids’ unwavering belief in the good God who did not heal their father earth side is profound. Their declarations of his character and confidence in the love of their Heavenly Father because of their earthly father linger in the air. The fragrance of their very

real and honest pain leaves none of us unscathed. Their dad has changed them for the better because he taught them to love the One who loves best. They are each

shining demonstrations of such love as they stand so bravely on a day of so much heartache.

This monumental day bleeds into another and more sickness cloaks our home. While caring first for baby girl and then my husband, I am ever pondering the mystery of healing. It comes and it doesn’t, what little control we have over it all. There are the

unexpected deliverances and the hoped for ones and all the questions in between. Our home slips into health again and yet my heart is held up. What is it all for, if not to point our world to a

very real and sovereign God? The healing and the lack thereof, the living and dying, the joy and sorrow. Is not His hand over it all? Is not His glory the very reason we have breath in our lungs? Is not His praise still the sweetest taste on our tongues?

When the day arrives that healing does not, who will the world know we were? Will they know of God because of us? I have the events of March 8th pressed on my heart like a heavenly

xerox: copied and pasted, remembered for always. It has been years since I recalled so clearly the hope of Christ in the midst of unspeakable grief. When everything is shaken and so little is sure, this I know: we do not grieve as the world does, without hope. We find tears on our cheeks, eyes lifted toward the sky, believing with all joy and

zeal that our King is coming again. That all will be made right and new. We hold fast to his promise to redeem and revive. Until then, He will catch every tear and we will trust His sovereign hand. Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty.

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This post is dedicated to my Uncle Reggie. A man after God’s own heart, whose life and legacy will be remembered forever.

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