A few weeks ago, I started reading again through the book of Job. Honestly, this was only because I am reading through my Bible, and it just happened to be the book up next. As I started, I was thinking maybe I don't really need to read this right now. Like, I took a class on this book in college, I have read through it front to back at least three times already. I've learned from it, I've taught on it; I get it, I know it, I love it, but maybe...I can skip it. For whatever reason, I didn't skip, but decided to approach Job - again - with an open heart. I read - again - about the good guy who suffered, who lost, who grieved; who needed friends to let him be angry, who needed to be allowed to put an 'ugly' face on for a while, who needed to have it out with a God who refused to explain Himself.
Reading through Job this time, I noticed him saying over and over again, "I know, I know, I know..." His friends are telling him to remember this and that about God and life, and Job keeps telling them, "I KNOW already!" If you read it in common language, he's basically saying, "Do you think I'm stupid? I know the same things you know. I've heard it. I believe it. I could be in your shoes telling you all of this right now. I KNOW! Ok?!?" He goes on to say, "But I was at ease, and He broke me apart; He seized me by the neck and dashed me to pieces...my face is red with weeping, and on my eyelids is deep darkness," (Job 16:12-17).
Job "knows" the things he's "supposed to know" about God, but his experience is contrary to what he's known or believed, and, well... what do you do with that??
Several weeks ago, my mother was admitted for emergency quadruple bypass open heart surgery. Twenty days in the cardiac ICU later, we are still waiting for her to stabilize, come off the vent and start moving forward. One day we see a slight upswing and trust for more. Then we get discouraging news again, have to keep waiting and anticipating, wondering if we should let ourselves feel encouraged or brace ourselves for the worst, and I get weary of the constant fright. I know much of this is normal. I know "it is what it is." I get it. I understand. She will live - I truly believe she will get through this. "It's a process..." I know...I get it. I've made peace with that. But today she's suffering (still) and I hate it. I HATE it. I can be present; I can try to comfort her. I can try to calm her and assure her, but I can't fix it. All I can do is experience it with her, at least in part, and hope - believe - for the best. But honestly? I just want resolve...
I just want her well again. I just want those tubes out; I want her breathing on her own. I want her to be allowed to eat or at least have a freaking ice chip for goodness sake. I want to know - no more "maybe's" but KNOW - that we are finally out of the woods here and she's going to recover. I want my own stupid anxiety about needles, blood, veins and hospitals to calm down. I want my dad not to have to secretly worry about what lies ahead for the love of his life. I want him to not have to feel helpless anymore. I want my sister not to have to feel bad for being home with her kids today. I want her to get to laugh with mom again, so hard that it hurts - the good kind. I want my brother to be able to tell her, face to face, eye to eye, that he finished his race. And I want to see her put those dark hands and bright red finger nails in the air and hear her say, "Well, praise the Lord..." as only my mother can. I want to get ready for work in the morning without wondering what kind of phone call I'll get today. I want to make it through that work day without getting a painful knot in my throat and teary-eyed every time someone is even remotely rude to me because I'm already so emotional and don't want to be here in the first place.
I just want her well again. I just want those tubes out; I want her breathing on her own. I want her to be allowed to eat or at least have a freaking ice chip for goodness sake. I want to know - no more "maybe's" but KNOW - that we are finally out of the woods here and she's going to recover. I want my own stupid anxiety about needles, blood, veins and hospitals to calm down. I want my dad not to have to secretly worry about what lies ahead for the love of his life. I want him to not have to feel helpless anymore. I want my sister not to have to feel bad for being home with her kids today. I want her to get to laugh with mom again, so hard that it hurts - the good kind. I want my brother to be able to tell her, face to face, eye to eye, that he finished his race. And I want to see her put those dark hands and bright red finger nails in the air and hear her say, "Well, praise the Lord..." as only my mother can. I want to get ready for work in the morning without wondering what kind of phone call I'll get today. I want to make it through that work day without getting a painful knot in my throat and teary-eyed every time someone is even remotely rude to me because I'm already so emotional and don't want to be here in the first place.
I want to be with my family. I want to be with my mom. I want my mom to live. I want my mom to live well. I want her to be at my wedding one day. I want my children to play with her. And honestly? I still kind of want her to tuck me in tonight. I'm 31 years old and maybe I shouldn't be mommy's little girl anymore, but no matter how old I've grown or how big I get, there's always going to be a piece of me that is simply made by her, for her and it will never be quite satisfied without her.
She's my mom.
I love her.
I want her to live.
I'm afraid that she won't.
I trust that she will.
I feel bad this week - really, really bad. I can try to hide it, I can try to be strong and courageous and encouraging for all our visitors, family, friends and supporters (who I SO appreciate), but if I'm really, really honest - like Job - I just feel bad, and I need to be allowed to feel bad.
We're pastors. My dad's a pastor, I'm a pastor, we're a pastor family. We get it - we're supposed to be strong. By His grace, we are strong. But even the strong, suffer. We are not immune and we, too, think, feel and worry the worst of things. We know we're supposed to always be positive and we're supposed to make everyone else feel better about all this mess. We also know you don't really think that. We know we put that pressure on ourselves (for the most part), but we still feel it and fight it. In the midst of feeling frightened over mom's health, we also feel somehow obligated to keep our faces on and hallelujah's loud...
But I'm feeling Job today. I just want to be allowed to be ugly today. I need to be allowed to feel bad - to face it, to feel it, and to walk through it so I can find God in it. Job never would have found God through His suffering if he had not thrown his arms around every ugly piece of it, feeling it, fighting it and asking God for a face-to-face at the end of it. I want that, too - I want to come to the end of this, and whether God answers me or not, I want to know Him more and I want to be more like Him. So, while I go ahead and get my ugly on, if at times I seem rude or faithless, I wish I could help you understand - I have never been more full of faith. While my "face is red with weeping..." "I know that my Redeemer lives."**
In all of this uncertainty, the one thing I am confident of is this:
He loves us.
The cross comforts me today: He loves me, He loves me, He loves me. That awful, ugly, hard, cold cross wraps its blood-stained arms around me today and hums, "He loves you. Don't forget it: He loves you." Nothing changes that.
And nothing changes this, Lord: I love You, too.
I love You, I love You, I love You...
Take my mom, my dad, my sister, my brother.
Take my family, my friends, my lover.
Take my things, my stuff, my purpose, my hope.
I love You, I love You, I love You... more.
Always, MORE.
Maybe it wasn't a mistake to start reading through Job again. Maybe God knows what we need, when we need it. Maybe He is present not only in suffering, but before and after it. Maybe in His own secret, simple, sweet ways He is preparing us, unknown, for what is to come, bracing us for impact, somehow gracing us to be both sad and fearful yet strong and courageous. Maybe when this, too, shall pass, He will still be present - powerfully, tenderly present - and He may or may not answer my "Why, God, Why?!'s" Whether or not He does or ever will, "I trust in His unfailing love."***
This week, I've had to face lots of people, caught without my makeup on way more than I'd normally allow:), eyes swollen and repeated comments about how tired I look. I can see in some eyes that they feel sorry for us, a natural response for sure. If I can encourage those lovers and supporters with anything, it is this: don't feel sorry for us, just support us (you so graciously have and are). Be present and let it be what it is today: a pain and a privilege. We have been granted a pain for sure, but we have also been granted the privilege:
"To KNOW Him, by any means possible - in the fellowship of His suffering and the power of His resurrection."****
One way or another, friends, there IS resurrection. With Jesus, there is always resurrection. So my grief today rests in this:
He lived. He died. He rose. He lives...
And so will we.
"For if we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord. So then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord's." - Romans 14:8
"With full courage, now as always, Christ will be honored in my body, whether through life or death. For to me to live is Christ and to die is gain." - Philippians 1:20-21
"There is only Christ; He is Everything." - Colossians 3:11
*Ecclesiastes 3:11
**Job 19:25
***Psalm 13:5
****Philippians 3:10-11
