Whisper Words: thoughts in the aftermath of tragedy

Lately, it’s been hard to find soul quiet in which to sink down, rest safe. But, even in this unrest, prayer has come more naturally—more needfully—to these dry lips lacking Water.

Why need it be the hard that pulls us to God?

The hurting church—licking its wounds. The disconsolate life—sucked dry by entertainment. The gun-ravaged people—struck down by Hell.

I sat on the edge of my bed and wept as the gunshots blared. My husband and I felt sick, as tragedy fueled political divisions. People being hauled into graves, wounded being caravanned into hospitals, families being ripped apart forever.

We can be assured—know it deep down—that there is “a time for mourning.”

There are times, maybe seasons, when we sit here—with tears and torment—feeling naked and alone. Why, God? Why the pain? Why the demons? Why the death?

And we know the answers. But knowing is not [is never] enough. We have to hope. Hope that God’s promises really have been made “Yes” in Christ. Hope that this patient God really is reaping a harvest of new believers in this time before eternal. Hope that we are waiting for a real, deep, overwhelming redemption outweighing the transient pain.

Hope in God.

And in the meantime, grieve with the grieving; weep with the weeping; reach out hands made strong by God and, by gosh, help the helpless.

This Creator God that “Let light shine out of darkness” makes light shine into dark hearts even now (2 Cor. 4:5-6). This light lets the hard pressed hold strong. It lets the perplexed disdain despair. And the persecuted? The Light does not leave them abandoned. Maybe struck down, but not destroyed.

Maybe someone will see this great hope and hope alongside us.

Some will say that prayer is empty and that there is no God to have ears to hear. Press on in prayer, friends. And press on in love labor so that people know our words have feet and walk this weary road.

Because in the end, this blood-bought road leads to salvation.

Collateral Faith (how seeing others' faith can bolster our own)

We pulled up to the hospital, and a smile tugged at my lips. The letters spelling out “Children’s Hospital” were a rainbow spectrum of colors, and the glowing lights behind them drew in the eyes, drew hope to the heart. It looked inviting. The lobby was even better, brighter: a luminous blue Christmas tree stood twelve feet tall; on the walls, murals of fish and bright corral and waves splashed cartoonishly over the usually pervading whiteness. I'm reminded...

“Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.”

We stood just outside the elevator, floor two, Oncology level, and passed the face masks around. We giggled a little as we stuck fuzzy black mustaches to our masks. And then the lump lodged fixed in the throat and we were holding the tears off firm. I never knew how conjoined tears and laughter could be.

Sometimes, faith is not always being assured of what God will do; it’s just being assured that whatever God does do will be good.

Will be ordained.

Will be backed by the comfort and power of God.

I sit in wonder, looking at the hearts that seek blessings in the battle-worn places, the trenches and the hospitals. That trust, clinging hard to the promises, that God hears. Answers. Holds. Understands.

This is collateral faith. The faith so strong it sends out the shock waves that undulate the ground and impact others all around. The real and gritty faith that challenges the stagnant heart . . . or the heart that wavers under the doubt and fear.

For my aunt and uncle and cousins, it’s a faith filled with tears and tests and toxins. Filled with hospital bed nights and white-walled days.

They remind me of the list of the faithful found in Hebrews. The people who believed hard and held tight to the promises (and wait even still to see their fruition).

Like Abraham, who packed the bags and went without knowing the destination.

Like Moses’ parents, who hid the babe in basket and sent him down the river.

Like the Israelites, who marched around the wall without weapon, but with trumpet, and saw the wall fall.

Like Rahab, who welcomed the foreign spies and dropped the scarlet rope.

Truly, it does encourage the heart toward faithfulness when we see these ones so faithful. They remind the weary souls to "fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hands of the throne of God.”

So, faithful, faith-filling God, let us hold tight to the promises . . . and see Your face in the midst of it. 

The House of Mourning

When the world is harsh and unrelenting, there is a solemn comfort: "It is better to go to the house of mourning..."

Some chapters of life are torn from our hands even while we're reading them--portions unread, things unresolved--and we feel bereft of a better ending. Some chapters of life contain painful contents (ones which make us dig deep in faith and grow us in prayer).

These chapters, whatever they contain, often drive us to the house of mourning.

Lately, I have been meditating on this place, drawn to look into its windows for various reasons. And for all the peering, I wonder if it's a place to talk. A place to sleep. A place to live (for a time).

Jesus is such a sweet example of dwelling well in such a place.

When Lazarus' sisters felt the sting of loss, their tear-streaked statement poured to Jesus: "'Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.'" In response, Jesus didn't berate their bare-faced sorrow and anger.

He paused.

He felt with them.

He wept.

What a wordless statement of grace and understanding. Even though He had the power to raise Lazarus from the dead (and in fact did), Jesus took a mortal moment to sit with us in sorrow. What a gift.

As we look at His gift (opening it up and  receiving its blessing) we can weep, too. It is okay to grieve. It is okay to cry. Even when suppressing the tears feels more acceptable. These moments give us a glimpse into eternity that little else provides. In them, we are reminded that the most important things are the things unseen. We are reminded that we do not mourn alone or without hope. We are reminded that our souls are programmed for eternity.

So, my Lord, we ask for peace in the house of mourning...and the joy of a chapter yet to come.