God’s answer to sorrow

Bad news

Since my baby sister Heidi was diagnosed with cancer last December, I’ve had probably five occasions that I would describe as nights of utter despair. Sure, I’ve been sad before in life–even crushed–but nothing like this handful of times that have sent me to my knees–literally–with sobs that felt like they would tear my bones apart. The trigger, each time, has been bad news. The chemo didn’t work. The second chemo doesn’t look like it’s working. Heidi’s kidneys stopped functioning. Each time, these blows have knocked me down into a pit of darkness.

I’m talking about the kind of sorrow that’s so heavy, and so black, that I’d rather die in that moment than keep feeling it. It’s the hopelessness and anger that drove me to punch the garage. The fire in my spirit that felt like it would consume me alive if I didn’t start running, and keep running, maybe forever. In these moments, I wept and shouted and said things to God like, you don’t even care! My sister is one of yours! Is this how you treat the ones who love you? Is this how you treat one of your most faithful servants? No loving Father would do this. How dare you. Badly done.

Collapsing faith

These are the moments that I described in this post as standing on the edge of my faith, looking into a chasm. A chasm where God doesn’t exist–or exists but isn’t good–or doesn’t care. Where life is sad and there is no justice, and no comfort, just death waiting for us all. Where it’s not just about Heidi dying, but about refugee babies dying in the ocean as their families tried to swim to Greece. About school shootings claiming the life of children whose moms and dads sent them to school hours earlier with a swift kiss and a casual “see you soon.” It’s about the pain and the injustice of the human experience, which overwhelms the world and crashes over my soul in those moments like a tidal wave. Nothing survives that. It leaves you bare, and empty, and alone.

At one point I remember looking into my husband’s eyes and saying, “I don’t know if I can believe in God anymore.”

And yet.

Somehow my faith has not only held but grown. Somehow I’ve woken up the next morning, and the next, and the next, and I have not fallen into the chasm of a meaningless world in which God is cruel and death wins.

Re-reading this post to make sure it makes sense, I’ve just noticed the disconnect. In one sentence, I’m about to lose my faith. The next sentence, it’s growing. One sentence, a tidal wave sweeps me bare. The next moment, my faith is still there. What?

Held

Exactly. What happened between the despair and the “and yet?” I can only say–God. I wasn’t holding on. He was. I wasn’t building my faith. He was gifting it to me. On those nights of darkness, I let go. But he did not.

And somehow–not in spite of those dark moments but because of them–something so incredibly sweet has begun to seep into my spirit. Something deep and rich and so terribly wonderful that I never want to lose the taste from my mouth.

It’s so sweet that I’ve delayed in writing about it because I don’t ever think words could do it justice. So bear with me as I fumble through.

If you’re a Christian, or have been exposed to Christians, you’ve surely heard the phrase “the good news.” I’d say it’s traditionally recapped as “Jesus came and died for your sins so you can go to heaven after you die.” And yes, that’s good news.

But somehow, as I felt myself drowning in the ocean of sorrow, that little definition grew. And grew.

The deepest cries

From the ocean of sorrow, out of my mouth, came the cries of the human heart. The vocalization of my deepest fears. My nightmares. The cries that I imagine are common to many of us.

Is there beauty? Is there meaning? Will all the pain be worth it?

I don’t believe that God has brought the cancer on Heidi. Or even that this is his “will” for her. I believe that sickness and death are a product of human evil and a broken world. But God’s promise to his people is that he will bring good and redemption. That swords will be beaten into plowshares, and spears into pruning hooks. I love that image because the violent tool becomes the tool of good work. God doesn’t bring about the pain in my life. But in his mercy and goodness, he takes the strands of it and weaves them into something beautiful. Meaningful.

I am convinced he will not let a single painful experience go to waste. That at the end of time, my life, and your life, and human history, will be woven into a breathtaking tapestry that tells the story we always wanted to be true. With the ending that our hearts always hungered for. Without God’s weaving fingers, human existence is a chaos of painful threads. But he will not let that lie. He will use it all.

To my heart’s deepest cries for beauty and meaning, God says yes. Beauty and meaning are not intrinsic to pain–quite the opposite. Pain and death seek to blot it out, and to rule, and to drown you. But God relentlessly weaves the beauty and the meaning in, stitch by stitch.

This is good news.

The other clamor of my heart in pain goes something like this: Is God listening? Does God speak to me? Would God change his mind, just because I ask?

One of my favorite passages in the Bible is the story of God and Moses. Essentially, God is like, “Moses, you guys go ahead to the promised land, but go without me.” Moses argues him down and God changes his mind (check it out in Exodus). I’ve encountered lots of people who are very uncomfortable with this idea and try to explain it away. Well, God can’t really change his mind, can he . . .?

Which is funny, because not only does the passage say explicitly that he changes his mind (also translated as “relents” or even “repents”), but why is this idea disturbing? I find it deeply comforting.

One of my biggest fears is that I’ll beg and beg and beg about the things I care about most, but that nothing I can say will matter to him. That God is actually an immutable cliff, and I’m a little wave dashing itself to pieces against the rock.

Don’t get me wrong–he will accomplish his purpose. Which is sovereign, and perfect. But his purpose, it turns out, is to welcome a massive family of people into his kingdom and then live with us forever. And the way he does that is to draw near to us and be in a relationship. And it’s not a relationship if it’s one-sided.

God says, yes.

God changes his mind. Not his character–but his mind. Because we ask. This is good news. God is not an immutable cliff. He is a king . . . but more than that, he’s a father. A brother. A friend. He loves us. He listens, and answers. He won’t always do what I ask. But he might. And to me, that is essential.

We don’t even have to ask in the right way. Or with the right words. Or with the right feelings. In fact, there is no requirement. (Check out Gideon’s story for more on this)

The answers

Chris Tomlin’s song Is He Worthy has been one of my two go-to songs during this time. I weep every time I hear it. Here’s a taste of the lyrics:

Do you feel the world is broken?
We do.
Do you feel the shadows deepen?
We do.
But do you know that all the dark won’t stop the light from getting through?
We do.
Do you wish that you could see it all made new?
We do.
Is all creation groaning?
It is.
Is a new creation coming?
It is.
Is the glory of the Lord to be the light within our midst?
It is.
Is it good that we remind ourselves of this?
It is.
Does the Father truly love us?
He does.
Does the Spirit move among us?
He does.
And does Jesus, our Messiah, hold forever those He loves?
He does.
Does our God intend to dwell again with us?
He does.

 

This call and response, to me, mirrors my experience with despair, when the good news rises up like the sun in the morning and answers that despair with light. When I wake up and realize that my worst nightmares are just that–bad dreams. And that the reality is sweet, and good, and beautiful after all.

I’m glad for each hour I’ve spent in this dark place. Because it’s forced out the most important questions. And as the questions exploded out of my fury and helplessness, I was given in return answers so beautiful as to take my breath away.

Let me take a step back. Because not all of you are going through what I am. But we all go through something. If not now, later. Let’s be real–we’re all going to die. So.

What would be the best news, to you? And I don’t mean getting a nice little bonus at work, though we all want that–I’m talking about the profound best news. Would it be that you’d get to see all your loved ones again? That you’ll get to look into the eyes of the one you lost, again, and feel the warm clutch of their arms? That you’ll meet the baby you miscarried, and hold them to your chest, and hear their precious sighs? That you’ll never have to fear for your safety again? That you will one day be free of the profound trauma of abuse, or rape, or injustice?

God’s good news says yes

All your dearest dreams, and your deepest desires, you will get.

The good news is not just about Christ dying, though that is wonderful. It’s that God will one day pour us wine at a magnificent dinner table where the ones we love will be laughing. Death, gun violence, school shootings, injustice–that will be no more. Every hurt will be healed. Every broken body will be whole. Every mind will be sound. Every longing will be satisfied. And, I’m convinced, every shred of pain we have gone through, God will imbue with meaning and loveliness, so much of it that we will rise up and say, it was worth it. We’d do it again. He has not only redeemed it but, out of it, created an abundance beyond anything we could have imagined.

Things will be better because of the pain we endured. The fruit of it will somehow be more beautiful than a pain-free existence. I don’t know how that will work–but I know it will come true.

This is the good news I believe in. It’s wider and richer than the Sunday school answer. And when the strands of its music play inside me, every fiber of my being thrills and my souls shouts back YES.

Christian or no, liberal or conservative, I dare you to open your heart to it.

Breadcrumbs from God

All Scripture quotes from Isaiah 55 and in Italics

Things for Heidi are hard right now. She’s been a bit quiet on her blog these days, so I feel I owe you all an update. Essentially, there’s nothing new. Except that cancer drags on. Dialysis drags on. Kidney treatments for her rare disease drag on. Her restricted diet (that basically eliminates all good-tasting food, including her favorite bagel, drags on). The tiredness, the pain, the blood draws–you get the idea.

The favorite bagel thing got me, guys. Heidi has a favorite bagel from Costco. Recently she wanted to eat it. This is good, because one of her diagnoses is severe malnutrition, which needs to be corrected before she could ever undergo a transplant. Mom checked out the nutrition facts. There was too much sodium. No bagel for you. Heidi cried.

We are hungry for this to be done. And Heidi is–literally–hungry for food. Good-tasting, normal, every-day food like her Asiago bagel.

Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labour for that which does not satisfy? Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food.

God, heal Heidi’s kidneys so she can eat again. Lift her dietary restrictions and let her eat her favorite bagel.

God, open Heidi’s heart to receive the rich food that only you can give her. God, I can’t encourage her–I can try, but she is walking this path alone. No one else can have cancer for her. God, you have to satisfy her. Give her your rich food. Don’t withhold. It seems like you’re withholding. How can you let her go through this without that soul satisfaction that you can provide? Open your hand and feed my sister.

Originally I imagined the path of Heidi’s cancer would be hard but straightforward. She’d do a round of chemo. That would get her body ready for transplant. Then, she’d get a transplant. Then, the recovery. The end.

That is not what has happened–at all. The first chemo didn’t work. The second chemo was so hard on her body she still hasn’t recovered. The damage to her heart, her kidneys, the fluid in her lungs, her muscle loss, her weight loss–all these things are problems other than cancer, the main problem. The main problem is now on the back burner as the other problems are dealt with.

Heidi is weary with it all. You can’t compartmentalize when you’re that sick. You are just sick–all the time. The pain, the tiredness, the awareness of being ill–it’s never gone. You can’t take a night off, have sushi and a hot bath and watch a rom com and forget your sorrows like the rest of us.

The hardest thing is to see this wear on her spirit. She is hemmed in by the cancer and she can’t escape. I can’t imagine what this is like.

See, you shall call nations that you do not know, and nations that you do not know shall run to you, because of the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, for he has glorified you.

God, you’ve told us you’re going to heal her. Do it quickly. Don’t delay. Do something great. God, I want you to do something so great that at the end of all of this, when Heidi is better, she will say, you know what, I’d do it again. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I’d do it again because God has shown himself. Because God revealed his heart. Because God has drawn more people to the rich food of his promises. Because there will be more people sitting around his feast table at the end of time, when we all raise a toast to the joy that we longed for and now get to taste.

Last week I was talking to Heidi. She told me she was praying and telling God (paraphrase), “How come you keep giving other people signs about my healing? What about me? Other people keep opening the Bible and finding signs from you. Why don’t you give me one?” Then, in her distress, she opened the Bible. Right to . . .

Isaiah 54. Her cornerstone passage. The first passage God gave her friend Amanda as a sign.

Heidi was not amused. I wanted a new one, God! Not this old one! But friends, hearing this story, I was so encouraged. To me, this was another breadcrumb.

We are headed towards a feast at the end of time. And, in a smaller scope, a dinner party when Heidi gets better. Where we will celebrate what God has done. Where we will raise a glass and say, God does what he says he will do. I will cry, and we’ll all cry, and there will be so much joy we’ll barely be able to stand it.

But the path to that dinner party–and the feast at the end of time–is long. Arduous. Our feet are blistered and our legs weary. We’re hungry, but the meal is a long way off. How much longer do we have to keep walking? Is God going to let us die before we get there?

This breadcrumb has given me the energy to take a few more steps.

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.

Well God, if the best thing I can imagine is Heidi being healed immediately and a dozen people who didn’t love you before coming to know and love you, then exceed my expectations. If your ways are higher, show me how much higher. I think my idea of how things should go is pretty great. Show me a greatness that makes my great ideas seem like grains of sand under a wide blue sky. Like grains of sand spinning around the sun on a blue planet. Like grains of sand in the glow of the Milky Way.

For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return there until they have watered the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and succeed in the thing for which I sent it.

God, you are one who does what he says. You said you’re going to heal her. I know you’re going to do it. Do it in the sight of all. Bring praise to yourself. Show the world your heart, which is large and beautiful and where there is room for us all.

For you shall go out in joy, and be led back in peace; the mountains and hills before you shall burst into song, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.

Bring us to the celebration, God. I know you’ll be there celebrating too. And I’ll hear you say, See, Jenna? I always do what I say. I am trustworthy and true. And then I will lean on your shoulder and weep with the goodness of it all.

Instead of the thorn shall come up the cypress;

God, instead of cancer and weakness and death, bring thriving and health and life.

instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle;

Instead of malnutrition and damage to Heidi’s organs bring full restoration–of Heidi’s body, and of our hearts towards you.

and it shall be to the Lord for a memorial, for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off.

And make of Heidi’s life–this part of it and all the others yet to come–a sign to yourself that will endure, a sign that you are God, and there is none like you, and that without you we would be most wretched, but that with you we are whole, and comforted, and led, and fed, and healed, and glorified, and safe, and loved.

And in the meantime . . . God, give us breadcrumbs. Give us snacks to sustain us.

I imagine a long road through the mountains. You’re about to pass out from hunger. Your vision is swimming. You lean for support on a rock. And there, sitting on the rock, is a little platter of blini with smoked salmon and creme fraiche, topped with a dollop of caviar.

Delicious. Exciting. Beautifully presented and perfectly timed. Not a meal . . . but an appetizer to tide us over, that reminds us that if we keep walking, we’ll get to the meal. Which will be inventive. Made with the best ingredients by the best chef. Keep going. The blini is a little taste of what’s to come.