Within a three-month period, Marshall and Susan Shelley saw two of their children die. In November 1991, son Toby succumbed to birth defects after two minutes of life. Then in February 1992, daughter Mandy, almost 2, died of complications from microcephaly. Now after twenty years, Marshall, LEADERSHIP JOURNAL's editor, reflects on how these losses have affected his relationship with God.
After losing two children, and after years of reflection, I see some aspects of God's character in much sharper focus than before, while others are still behind a glass dimly.
Serving God demands more
I hadn't realized the cost of discipleship. God assigns some people incredibly tough situations. Mandy's life was marked by severe and profound retardation and frequent seizures. Toby's Trisomy 13, the doctors said, was "a condition incompatible with life."
Since our two children died, I can't help but pause, and wince, each time I read the Bible and see afresh the ordeals children faced, often at the hand of God. Sometimes his ways are severe.
In Genesis, at God's direction, Ishmael and his mother are evicted from their home into the desert. Young Isaac is bound as a human sacrifice (though soon released). In Exodus, all firstborn sons of the Egyptians are slain by the death angel. Job's children (though probably grown children) are killed in Satan's test, sanctioned by God.
And this doesn't include the children killed in God's broader judgments, such as the flood of Noah's day, the destruction of Sodom, or the conquest of Canaan.
In the story of David and Bathsheba, the adultery and the murder of Uriah no longer hold much interest for me–simply more evidence of human sinfulness. Now I fixate on God's treatment of the two sons produced by David and Bathsheba's union–one, a nameless son, died as God's judgment on David's sin; the second, Jedidiah (meaning "loved by God"), became Solomon and enjoyed God's most lavish blessing. I ponder that first son's destiny–dying as punishment for David's sin (even though David apparently didn't grieve the death).
In Matthew, all boys in Bethlehem under age 2 are murdered, in fulfillment of an Old Testament prophecy.
In John 9, in front of a man blind since birth, Jesus is asked if this suffering is due to his own sins or to those of his parents. Jesus explains it is neither but rather "that the work of God might be displayed in his life." A childhood of blindness for God's greater glory? That answer–especially from Jesus, known for his love of children–causes me to tremble.
Ultimately, of course, God's own Son is sent to die upon a cross.
Living for God's glory is not for sissies.
The only way I can gaze upon such severe treatment of children, without becoming catatonic, is trusting that God's purposes require a stiff price. Redemption must be ever so much costlier than I imagine. Earth's contamination by sin must be so severe that equally strong medicine is required.
And even trusting God's purpose, I still occasionally flinch.
Eternity is nearer
Before my children died, I considered the doctrines of resurrection and heaven pleasant but remote, a bit quaint. Now, they are central and strategic.
As I held both Toby and Mandy within seconds of death, I was overwhelmed by a sense of how close every one of us is to eternity. I was cheek to cheek with a child now entering everlasting life. That sense, though sometimes overshadowed by the busyness of life, is never far away.
Many times now, heaven seems so much more substantial than earth. My wife, Susan, sometimes says, "I have one foot in heaven and one foot on earth." We've already sent part of ourselves on ahead–and we understand better what Jesus meant when he said, "Where your treasure is, there will your hearts be also." Our hearts are continually drawn heavenward.
While I still dread the process of dying, the fact that my children have preceded me gives me greater resolve. If my child can go through death's door, certainly I can.
A friend put the issue clearly: "To enter eternity, you must (1) be born, and (2) die. That's the process for every one of us, including Mandy and Toby." After your child enters eternity, it seems amazingly close.
Prayer is less specific, more intense
After desperate pleas for our children's healing, for the ability to swallow, for lungs to breathe, for an end to seizures–and then to see Toby and Mandy's days on earth end–my prayer life has changed.
It's harder to confidently make specific requests. It's now clear that God's redemptive agenda may, or may not, include granting my current passionate desire–even a passionate desire for my son or daughter to breathe.
The day after Toby's birth/death, one of the labor-and-delivery nurses handed us a recording by Wayne Watson; the title song, "Home Free," described us with uncanny accuracy.
"Out in the corridors we pray for life, a mother for her baby, a husband for his wife. Sometimes the good die young, it's sad but true. While we pray for one more heartbeat, the real comfort is in You….
"Pain has little mercy, suffering's no respecter of age, of race, or position. I know every prayer gets answered, but the hardest one to pray is slow to come: O Lord, not mine but your will be done." (copyright 1990 Material Music and Word Music)
God's clear answer to our prayers was not to provide additional heartbeats. It was "Toby and Mandy will live–but with resurrected bodies in heaven with me." If his answer was so much deeper than what we requested, then it's hard not to imagine him also reconfiguring our more mundane requests about jobs, relationships, schedules, and surgeries.
Now, I'm not sure I even want him to grant my daily wish list. What I really want is to see God's eternal work and to be a part of it. Prayer is now an intense desire to know God, to understand his ways, and to see good come out of pain.
Faith is more intentional
Do you remember the classical distinction between virtue and innocence? Virtue, unlike innocence, has successfully passed a point of temptation.
Perhaps a similar distinction can be found in faith–innocent faith can trust God because it hasn't seen the abyss; virtuous faith has known the terror and chooses to trust God.
As Abraham Heschel observed, "Job's faith was unshakable because it was the result of being shaken."
Even as a child, I loved to read, and I quickly learned that I would most likely be confused during the opening chapters of a novel. New characters were introduced. Disparate, seemingly random events took place. Subplots were complicated and didn't seem to make any sense in relation to the main plot.
But I learned to keep reading. Why? Because you know that the author, if he or she is good, will weave them all together by the end of the book. Eventually, each element will be meaningful.
At times, such faith has to be a conscious choice.
Even when I can't explain why a chromosomal abnormality develops in my son, which prevents him from living on earth more than two minutes …
Even when I can't fathom why our daughter has to endure two years of severe and profound retardation and continual seizures …
I choose to trust that before the book closes, the Author will make things clear. And to remember his words through the prophet: "For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope" (Jer. 29:11, NKJV).
Clinging to that promise, even when the weight of sorrow makes our knees buckle, makes faith intentional and, I trust, unshakable.
Marshall Shelley is editor of Leadership Journal.
1996 by Christianity Today/LEADERSHIP JOURNAL.
