Days were going by. This was the third.
Nearly two days remained. I was hoping for so much more.
Against impossible odds, slimmer than what reality would allow, Marianne actually had started to mark the slightest beginning of a recovery. The medicine that was being used to keep her stable was not as necessary and so they pulled back. Less effort was needed to keep her. She seemed to be holding her own. Every heart beat mattered. Every clue at a recovery seemed to make sense. God was present. A miracle would ensue. Everything would be as it was. God would be who I thought he was. My heart swelled with faith, one that was dictated and determined by what I saw, not by what I knew. But the faith was there. I had faith that she would wake. My words followed what I saw and filled my swollen heart. Rescue was apparent. Death would be subverted. God would be proven in my mind and victory validated in my heart.
For the first time in two days, I walked out of the hospital to clear my head and be alone. I ended up on a bench on the side of the hospital in a courtyard filled with greenery and flowers. It was peaceful. I was at ease, mostly. Still very much in the violence of the storm, I began to think and pray. I wondered deeply if Marianne would be healed. This would be miraculous. I did believe. As much as I could, I believed for her healing. I could see tomorrow and our life resuming. We would return home fully thankful and deeply grateful for God’s rescuing hand in her healing. Years would go by and the girls would grow. Life would go on. Milestones would be reached, dreams would be lived and love would root us deeper. My mind was at ease in these visions. For the first time in days, my heart was really at rest. I trusted that the thousands praying with us had convinced God to intervene and disrupt circumstance, to interrupt tragedy in the making and to break death’s grasp. Our words were so strong and full. And then the quietest thought easily pierced my heart almost in a friendly way. “You’re going to have to leave the hospital alone.” It was a thought so against all that I heard that I resigned it simply as the residue of doubt present in my heart. But it resisted and remained. And it grew a bit louder and it felt real, more so than the comforting vision that had filled my head.
I didn’t believe him.
“This can’t be. Why? I don’t deserve this and you can’t do this to me, not to my kids especially. You should know this.”
I remember feeling grief for the first time. And so weak and lost. She seemed to be improving. Her condition was more than noticeably better. The doctors were amazed. This had to be a miracle in the making. That was a feeling that I felt like I was frantically chasing now, now that my heart was pierced by trustworthy words that I despised apparently from a God that I thought I loved. I did not know how to think. I just knew that I could not ignore or discard the thought that was louder than the rest; the one announcing defeat and loss. What surprised me was that I was not angry. I felt too broken and tired and lost to be angry. I couldn’t fight anymore. I just felt more alone than ever before and God felt a million miles removed from the terror consuming my heart, the depth of despair I was sinking to. This was deeper and more bottomless than before when even the slimmest hope was enough to keep me from really being lost. But now, this was different. I swear if I have ever heard God’s voice, this was it. It was clearly not from me. This was more than doubt stabbing at my heart. This was real, and I knew it.
“If this is so, if I have to leave here alone, You better come and be so close to me.” I couldn’t do this on my own. Who could? It is so difficult to describe properly the loneliness that I felt. Everything was being flushed out of my heart. Memories, thoughts, hopes, dreams...everything was leaving me. All that mattered was being removed. I felt nothing, not fear, not happiness, not hope or dread, nothing. The chapel experience just the day before felt a lifetime ago. I was not apart like before. All of me was lost. I sat there alone, not in the warmth of the sun, not in the company of love, not in a life where future time existed. In exactly where I was at, I was lost. The only thing present was the life that used to be. I was somewhere I did not know, alone. I wasn’t mad at God or spiteful. I was deeper than that. I was not fighting anymore or trusting or gripping faith so tightly. Lost is a place you do not recognize, not a place only difficult or treacherous, but a place offering no clues to where you actually are. It is dark and disorienting.
I left that courtyard retracing the steps that led me there back to those hoping, back to her hospital room where she laid, in the exact spot I was losing her. I didn’t feel God with me. He was as he always is, but my heart only sensed him in winning and losing, in answered prayers and silent inactivity. I just felt lost in that moment. She was still alive and apparently fighting, but I knew we would lose in the end. I did not know how to resolve that thought. If a miracle was to happen and I was wrong, I would be joyfully mistaken. Her condition started to hint at what I knew.
And that is how the third day ended.
Nearly two days remained. I was hoping for so much more.
Against impossible odds, slimmer than what reality would allow, Marianne actually had started to mark the slightest beginning of a recovery. The medicine that was being used to keep her stable was not as necessary and so they pulled back. Less effort was needed to keep her. She seemed to be holding her own. Every heart beat mattered. Every clue at a recovery seemed to make sense. God was present. A miracle would ensue. Everything would be as it was. God would be who I thought he was. My heart swelled with faith, one that was dictated and determined by what I saw, not by what I knew. But the faith was there. I had faith that she would wake. My words followed what I saw and filled my swollen heart. Rescue was apparent. Death would be subverted. God would be proven in my mind and victory validated in my heart.
For the first time in two days, I walked out of the hospital to clear my head and be alone. I ended up on a bench on the side of the hospital in a courtyard filled with greenery and flowers. It was peaceful. I was at ease, mostly. Still very much in the violence of the storm, I began to think and pray. I wondered deeply if Marianne would be healed. This would be miraculous. I did believe. As much as I could, I believed for her healing. I could see tomorrow and our life resuming. We would return home fully thankful and deeply grateful for God’s rescuing hand in her healing. Years would go by and the girls would grow. Life would go on. Milestones would be reached, dreams would be lived and love would root us deeper. My mind was at ease in these visions. For the first time in days, my heart was really at rest. I trusted that the thousands praying with us had convinced God to intervene and disrupt circumstance, to interrupt tragedy in the making and to break death’s grasp. Our words were so strong and full. And then the quietest thought easily pierced my heart almost in a friendly way. “You’re going to have to leave the hospital alone.” It was a thought so against all that I heard that I resigned it simply as the residue of doubt present in my heart. But it resisted and remained. And it grew a bit louder and it felt real, more so than the comforting vision that had filled my head.
I didn’t believe him.
“This can’t be. Why? I don’t deserve this and you can’t do this to me, not to my kids especially. You should know this.”
I remember feeling grief for the first time. And so weak and lost. She seemed to be improving. Her condition was more than noticeably better. The doctors were amazed. This had to be a miracle in the making. That was a feeling that I felt like I was frantically chasing now, now that my heart was pierced by trustworthy words that I despised apparently from a God that I thought I loved. I did not know how to think. I just knew that I could not ignore or discard the thought that was louder than the rest; the one announcing defeat and loss. What surprised me was that I was not angry. I felt too broken and tired and lost to be angry. I couldn’t fight anymore. I just felt more alone than ever before and God felt a million miles removed from the terror consuming my heart, the depth of despair I was sinking to. This was deeper and more bottomless than before when even the slimmest hope was enough to keep me from really being lost. But now, this was different. I swear if I have ever heard God’s voice, this was it. It was clearly not from me. This was more than doubt stabbing at my heart. This was real, and I knew it.
“If this is so, if I have to leave here alone, You better come and be so close to me.” I couldn’t do this on my own. Who could? It is so difficult to describe properly the loneliness that I felt. Everything was being flushed out of my heart. Memories, thoughts, hopes, dreams...everything was leaving me. All that mattered was being removed. I felt nothing, not fear, not happiness, not hope or dread, nothing. The chapel experience just the day before felt a lifetime ago. I was not apart like before. All of me was lost. I sat there alone, not in the warmth of the sun, not in the company of love, not in a life where future time existed. In exactly where I was at, I was lost. The only thing present was the life that used to be. I was somewhere I did not know, alone. I wasn’t mad at God or spiteful. I was deeper than that. I was not fighting anymore or trusting or gripping faith so tightly. Lost is a place you do not recognize, not a place only difficult or treacherous, but a place offering no clues to where you actually are. It is dark and disorienting.
I left that courtyard retracing the steps that led me there back to those hoping, back to her hospital room where she laid, in the exact spot I was losing her. I didn’t feel God with me. He was as he always is, but my heart only sensed him in winning and losing, in answered prayers and silent inactivity. I just felt lost in that moment. She was still alive and apparently fighting, but I knew we would lose in the end. I did not know how to resolve that thought. If a miracle was to happen and I was wrong, I would be joyfully mistaken. Her condition started to hint at what I knew.
And that is how the third day ended.
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