Page 2 of 2My telephone rings, and though I do not recognize the number, I answer. It is a member of my church, a man I know to be good. We share brief salutations, passing platitudes and he begins to tell his story. “I’d like to share a bit of hope with you,” he says.
“My son was helplessly sick, too. We happened to be visiting family just down from Children’s Hospital when his heart stopped beating. We rushed him to the emergency room, prayed for a miracle, and by God’s providence, the docs were able to jump-start him. We would find that he had a rare disease, a wasting disease maybe a lot like Titus. We prayed for another miracle, and God answered. He brought us the right doctor, orchestrated every move, ordained the whole thing to bring healing, and, ultimately, greater glory. God will bring you an answer in good time.”
He means all the hope in the world, but I feel gut-punched. I am not in a particularly strong position of faith these days. I’ve been praying for answers, for growth and healing, and so far, none of it has worked. And now I’m listening to this creeping gospel of prosperity. “God will answer if you are faithful,” he says.
He’s telling a story of belief, and I am truly grateful for his reaching out. But these words don’t bolster me; they feel more like a dagger than a comfort. Haven’t I been faithful? Haven’t I done right? And if my child were to pass to the next life, what does that say about my goodness? Worse yet, what does that say about God’s?
He tells me to “hang on, keep faith in God. He is Titus’s healer.”
I would like to tell him that in this moment, I’m not a man of particularly large faith. I’d like to tell him that I stopped praying for Titus’s healing a week ago, and I’d kill for a sign, for a miracle doctor, for something to confirm I’m not walking some lonely road of damnation. I’d like to tell him that his words feel volume-less, like a milk-toast cop-out, that they mute the sting of the present. If I could, I’d tell him these promises seem myopic, an outcome-determinative view of the goodness of God.
But I don’t.
“Sure. Thanks for calling,” I say instead. There is no comfort in the effluence of men’s words, I think. There’s no vindication in them, either.
Titus is not yet one and he knows no better life than the one he is living. He carries joy through it all, oblivious to vanity that surrounds him, that which connects strength, intelligence, and prosperity to God. It’s not been an easy year, but he is being made into something tough. And as I learn to hold my tongue, as I extend grace to the weakest of word wielders, I am also being made tough: perhaps a bit more tender too.
Sometimes providence guards us from pain. Other times, the providence is in the pain. Lord, that we would understand the nuance and offer our words accordingly.
Seth Haines is the author of Coming Clean, a story of pain, faith, and the abiding love of God. You can find him at sethhaines.com or on Twitter @sethhaines. Taken from Soul Bare by Cara Sexton. Copyright (c) 2016 by Cara Sexton. Used by permission of InterVarsity Press, P.O. Box 1400, Downers Grove, IL 60515-1426. www.ivpress.com
