In the Middle

Today I should be packing a suitcase to go to the Middle East for a medical missions trip with my husband.  Instead I'm sitting in a hospital waiting room while he's is in surgery to reconstruct his ankle.

The phrase, "Life can turn on a dime" has taken on new meaning for us.

Everyone asks how it happened. I know Andy wishes it was a better story every time the question is posed. The truth is, he slipped on black ice, landed on his ankle, and fractured all three weight-bearing joints.

I was home folding laundry when I got the call.  "Hon, I broke my foot."  My first reaction was almost laughter -- he is a huge jokester and most people can't tell whether he's kidding or telling the truth. It’s easy for me if I can see his face – the corner of his mouth turns up when he’s teasing. But I caught myself when I heard the pain in his voice.  He explained that the ambulance had just arrived and I should come to the hospital as soon as I could.

I hung up and stared at the laundry strewn around the room.  Should I finish folding it?  What about the dishes I didn't get to?  Maybe I should get dressed first.  Who should I call?  What about Jonas, the girls?  What do I do? 

Thoughts still swirling, I decided I should just get dressed and go.  I arrived at the ER and found him sitting in a hallway, pain etched in his face, one hand holding a makeshift sling to prop up his injured ankle.  "Babe...oh my goodness...." I said as I rushed to his side.

"I have to get better so we can still go...."

At the time we didn't know how bad it was.  We both hoped that somehow, someway, we'd still be able to get on that plane in a few weeks.  

 

Many hours and multiple doctors and phone calls and a splint later, we realized there was absolutely no way.  We both fought back tears as we tried to accept the new reality - surgery, six weeks of recovery, and who-knows-how-many-more weeks of physical therapy.

The weight of it settled on me once we got home.  It's all up to me now - the food, the kids, the driving, the cleaning, the dail-yness of our life suddenly rested on my shoulders.

Instead of serving Syrian refugees, I'd be serving my husband and children.  Instead of meeting his friends from across the world, I'd be meeting doctors and nurses and scheduling appointments.  Instead of sampling Middle Eastern cuisine, I'd be relying on friends to bring meals each day.  

I had a little talk with God after everyone went to bed.  "God, I need You.  I can't do all this myself.  I don't like this.  But I know I trust You. I need You to be with me every step. It's you and me, God."

Recently a friend asked me if I'd gone back and re-read my last blog post since the accident.  I had written about the race God marked out for us: "This is the race marked out for me.  I'm sure of it. I pray my eyes stay on the course, focused on the finish, looking to the One who marked my race. " 

Little did I know when I wrote those words that God had a detour marked out for us in our race, and that the trip to the Middle East would no longer be part of our journey.

"We want to know why?  Why now?  Why him?  Why did God allow this?  But we may never know, and we have to be okay with that, because the other option quickly turns to entitlement and starts us down a road to bitterness. I can accept or I can resent.  I want to choose to trust - trust that God didn't just allow this to happen, He marked it out for us."  (I would later write in my journal)

I don't know why but I believe God is with me, not just waiting for me at the end of the race, but running right alongside me.  I believe He carries me through each day and gives me just enough grace for the moment.  I believe He will use this to draw us closer to each other and closer to Him.  I believe He will teach us and grow us and that this will be a story worth telling. 

But I'm still sad.  Andy's heartbroken.  Trust doesn't erase emotion.  And I’ve learned it’s not wise to bury the emotion and pretend either, because then you turn into a fake.  It's okay to feel the weight of grief, to sit in it and let it wash over you, to cry and yell and punch pillows.  (not that I've ever done that. wink, wink)

You might scare everyone else in your house, but there is One who is big enough to handle that side of you.  The one who understands, who comforts without condemnation, who bears the burden with you.  He doesn't want or need a fake you, who says the right thing all the time and quotes Christian cliches.  I really don't want or need that either.  He wants the real you, the raw emotion, the truthful thoughts.   

Larry Crabb writes, "The difficult truth is that, relationship with God, this side of heaven, does not always feel good.  God lets us experience seasons of emptiness and futility that simply cannot be endured if our real aim is satisfaction in this life. Jesus' greatest moment of surrender came when he faced his most terrifying prospect of aloneness. And that surrender released His deepest resolve. The tortures of Gethsemane prepared him for the horrors of Calvary. Without wrestling in the Garden, would He have found the strength to remain on the Cross?"  (The Papa Prayer)

And the strength comes not in yourself, or in the success or resolution of your situation, but in the Presence of the One wrestling alongside of you.  He's running the race with you, sometimes whispering encouragement, other times carrying you.  Our Comforter, Our Confidante, our Cheerleader.  And you’re strong simply because He’s there.

Life is hard. Life is messy. Life sucks sometimes. Or maybe a lot of the time. There are no guarantees that life will follow our plan or expectations. But you know what? God told us that. He was honest with us. He said we'd have trouble in this world, but "I have overcome the world." (John 17:33) My hope has to rest in that - He has overcome, one time at Calvary, and someday at the end.  And in the middle, He's here, He's real, and He's running right next to me.  And that is what gives me courage to get up the next day and do it all again.