After 17 days of waiting, I finally held our boy in my arms last night. It didn't matter that I could only see about an inch of his sweet face, buried deep beneath sheets, still attached to cords, wires, probes, and tubes; it didn't matter. I still long for a day when I'll be able to swoop him up into my arms, raspberry his chubby little tummy, listen to him giggle and watch him drool with delight...These are things I dream of, but since I've spent my waking moments wondering if I'd ever get to hold him at all, I'm learning to take what I'm given: all is gift, all is victory.
In light of last night's holding, I felt a step closer to that dream of bringing baby home. But I've been wondering: suppose I do bring home the happy, healthy, perfect little Alder we've all been hoping and praying for. What then? For the first time in my life, I've grappled with the reality that, even if this specific circumstance turns out "well," the suffering won't stop. Walking on this earth means suffering is inevitable. My heart will break. Hearts around me will break. The end of the story is universally true: we all die. Happily ever after isn't achievable while I'm still here. What do I even do with that? Yesterday's study began to answer the question for me:
"For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven and do not return there but water 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 shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it. (Isaiah 55:10-11)
In my forgetfulness, the Lord needs to keep reminding me that, though we suffer, we do not suffer in vain. This breaking isn't just a breaking, but a filling back up again. In the very darkest hours of this journey, Jesus has felt the very closest. Though I would not wish this or want any of this cup, He has given it and from it I have received life, and life to the fullest. I have tasted His goodness and it is so, so sweet! I want to share it and proclaim it and savour it forever. That. That is, in part, why I suffer. I have seen God's faithfulness in our circumstances; He is crafting what the enemy intended for evil and turning it into our greatest good and His highest glory. What feels like loss is merely veiled gain. Not just for our family, but for the world around us. . .
Walking through the hospital halls, I'm becoming more in tune with the expressions on the faces around me. A few days ago, when we had friends visiting and all was relatively well with Alder, I noticed a family in the lobby. They were gathered there, and as the day wore on their faces became more pained. I know those looks. Those looks--I've lived in them. Hours passed, and every time we passed the growing group my heart broke a little more. On our way out for dinner, I passed one of them, the oldest man, sitting alone a bench outside. I couldn't resist the prompting to speak to him. I approached a little timidly, asking if we could pray for whoever it was they're waiting on. His eyes filled with tears and he answered. Yes. Absolutely you can; please pray for my grandson. "I just want to make it better," his eyes swelled and reddened, "and there's not a thing in the world I can do to fix this…" I know, dear man, precious man. I know. You suffer, too. If I could fix this for you, I would. I can't, but you're not in this valley alone. We left the hospital, my heart breaking all over again, all for the sadness of our pain and theirs and those walls brimming with hundreds of broken, crushed, weary souls.
The second part of the response came this morning, unexpected:
“Is not this the fast that I choose:
to loose the bonds of wickedness,
to undo the straps of the yoke,
to let the oppressed[b] go free,
and to break every yoke?
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry
and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover him,
and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?
Then shall your light break forth like the dawn,
and your healing shall spring up speedily;
your righteousness shall go before you;
the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard.
Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer;
you shall cry, and he will say, ‘Here I am.’
If you take away the yoke from your midst,
the pointing of the finger, and speaking wickedness,
if you pour yourself out for the hungry
and satisfy the desire of the afflicted,
then shall your light rise in the darkness
and your gloom be as the noonday.
And the Lord will guide you continually
and satisfy your desire in scorched places
and make your bones strong;
and you shall be like a watered garden,
like a spring of water,
whose waters do not fail.
Isaiah 58:6-11”
The answer to "what's next?" is twofold, simple: know I won't suffer in vain, and go. So I will go. I will stand alongside those who suffer. What is irrelevant. Where doesn't matter. When is now, was then, is yet to come. He has and will continue to equip me, for His grace is sufficient for me. By His mighty hand I will go to the darkness, because the Word will overcome it, piercing through, resplendent. I will seek out the broken, the weary, the hungry, the weak, because our great, good, and powerful Saviour came not to heal the healthy, but the sick. And even my dim light will shine bright in those dark places, because His light conquered dark itself. I was created for this, and He will use me, even in spite of myself, for His lofty purposes.
So tonight, I am so thankful for that grieving man in the hospital with the saddened blue eyes, because he reminded me why I'm here: to serve and to share in his sorrows, so that one day, with God's grace, we can share in His glory