Hope in the Unseen
"What kind of a God?" I imagine this question pulsing through so many hearts and to it I have no clear answers.
It's Monday morning and breakfast, and I am heavy with the office of breaking news to a daughter cherished, a heart I would prefer to shield from such knowledge. We talk briefly, she nibbling on her food, I standing behind her and running a brush through her hair. I give as few details as possible. I say, "I need to tell you something that I want you to hear from us first. Kids and teachers at school might talk about a sad thing that happened on Friday. A bad man went into a school and hurt some children there. It was very wrong. If you hear about it and you want to talk about it with someone, you can talk to your teacher and you can talk to us. OK?"
"OK," she replies. A pause and I think we are in the clear and she asks, "Did that bad man kill those children, Mommy? Did he kill them?" And I tremble to speak the truth,"Yes, honey. He did." And she asks, "How? How did it happen?" And I answer, "It happened because he was very sick." I have not answered her question. I know it. She asks, "How did he do it?" And I can't bring myself to tell her. I don't think she needs to know that part yet. And so I tell her that it's not important for her to know; what we can remember is that those families are so sad and that we need to pray for them.
I turn away, stand at the sink, I think: "Is this the world I birthed three babies to? Is it?" I want to call everything off--school, appointments, the whole day. I want to stay home and hold those babies--for always.
Where in all this pain is God?
I remember the cross where a son loses his life, where a father loses his son, where the son is laid to rest, and, having paid the price for all this world's evil, rises again to meet us in our darkest nights, to promise, to promise that all is not lost. That this life here in this darkness is not the end of our journey. And I know the way he has pursued me in this life and the way his love does not give way. And I have only this: Emmanuel, which means God with us. God with us. The Light that came because the darkness is real.
And it is a comfort. A promise. I pray she will know it to her very core now and always. That girl who runs carefree through most of her days, yellow hair wild like the wind, laughter long and loud. As she learns her world, she discovers what her parents would prefer to hide: the darkness that is real. But in the window to her heart I see Light. She speaks of heaven and of grace and the Story. She tells us last night that when we get to heaven we can walk on water and break through walls. "When I get there, Mom, I'm going to ask my great grandparents if they've done it yet."
"Done what?" I ask.
"Break through walls!" She's excited.
"Don't leave too soon," I say.
"I won't," she replies, "You'll get there first."
To have that faith, to know in the heart that darkness does not get the final word. That is what I ask of my God. And then I ask him to undo it--whatever it happens to be on a given day on this broken planet.
It is Wednesday and Mark and I have our Christmas date. Dinner at a favorite restaurant and a movie. Sitting in the darkened theater makes me jumpy. I have no stomach for the previews, which always involve guns, bullets, explosions--carnage glorified. And I wonder why they can't just skip over this. Out of respect. Out of human decency. And then the film: Lincoln. Speak of unspeakable loss--a war of absolute carnage. It happened, though the movie is only images on a screen. The events were real. And slavery was real. And it ended. It ended because there were those who believed that all men were created equal before God, before the Law. I am reminded of our depths and our heights--our capacity for evil is as deep as our capacity for mercy is high. And it is the way of things here. On a chilly night, I look to the heavens and I plead. This world is not enough. It just isn't. I long for the day when my eyes see that all, ALL, is grace.
I pray your Christmas will be Light-full. May the height of your joy in this season exceed the depth of human struggle, as we bow to recognize a King come to us in the dark.
We hope on.
It's Monday morning and breakfast, and I am heavy with the office of breaking news to a daughter cherished, a heart I would prefer to shield from such knowledge. We talk briefly, she nibbling on her food, I standing behind her and running a brush through her hair. I give as few details as possible. I say, "I need to tell you something that I want you to hear from us first. Kids and teachers at school might talk about a sad thing that happened on Friday. A bad man went into a school and hurt some children there. It was very wrong. If you hear about it and you want to talk about it with someone, you can talk to your teacher and you can talk to us. OK?"
"OK," she replies. A pause and I think we are in the clear and she asks, "Did that bad man kill those children, Mommy? Did he kill them?" And I tremble to speak the truth,"Yes, honey. He did." And she asks, "How? How did it happen?" And I answer, "It happened because he was very sick." I have not answered her question. I know it. She asks, "How did he do it?" And I can't bring myself to tell her. I don't think she needs to know that part yet. And so I tell her that it's not important for her to know; what we can remember is that those families are so sad and that we need to pray for them.
I turn away, stand at the sink, I think: "Is this the world I birthed three babies to? Is it?" I want to call everything off--school, appointments, the whole day. I want to stay home and hold those babies--for always.
Where in all this pain is God?
I remember the cross where a son loses his life, where a father loses his son, where the son is laid to rest, and, having paid the price for all this world's evil, rises again to meet us in our darkest nights, to promise, to promise that all is not lost. That this life here in this darkness is not the end of our journey. And I know the way he has pursued me in this life and the way his love does not give way. And I have only this: Emmanuel, which means God with us. God with us. The Light that came because the darkness is real.
And it is a comfort. A promise. I pray she will know it to her very core now and always. That girl who runs carefree through most of her days, yellow hair wild like the wind, laughter long and loud. As she learns her world, she discovers what her parents would prefer to hide: the darkness that is real. But in the window to her heart I see Light. She speaks of heaven and of grace and the Story. She tells us last night that when we get to heaven we can walk on water and break through walls. "When I get there, Mom, I'm going to ask my great grandparents if they've done it yet."
"Done what?" I ask.
"Break through walls!" She's excited.
"Don't leave too soon," I say.
"I won't," she replies, "You'll get there first."
To have that faith, to know in the heart that darkness does not get the final word. That is what I ask of my God. And then I ask him to undo it--whatever it happens to be on a given day on this broken planet.
It is Wednesday and Mark and I have our Christmas date. Dinner at a favorite restaurant and a movie. Sitting in the darkened theater makes me jumpy. I have no stomach for the previews, which always involve guns, bullets, explosions--carnage glorified. And I wonder why they can't just skip over this. Out of respect. Out of human decency. And then the film: Lincoln. Speak of unspeakable loss--a war of absolute carnage. It happened, though the movie is only images on a screen. The events were real. And slavery was real. And it ended. It ended because there were those who believed that all men were created equal before God, before the Law. I am reminded of our depths and our heights--our capacity for evil is as deep as our capacity for mercy is high. And it is the way of things here. On a chilly night, I look to the heavens and I plead. This world is not enough. It just isn't. I long for the day when my eyes see that all, ALL, is grace.
I pray your Christmas will be Light-full. May the height of your joy in this season exceed the depth of human struggle, as we bow to recognize a King come to us in the dark.
We hope on.