It hit me as soon as I stepped out of the elevator. I immediately felt like I was wading through jelly, the air was conditioned, but it was thick. There was the antiseptic and the scent of sickness mixing together in their dreadfully familiar way. I could tell this place had been meticulously planned, every last detail on this floor, every surface shiny and new, every inch proclaiming “all is well”, in the face of nothing feels well. Hopeless. Fear. Devastation. Words were flying through my mind at top speed. . I examined the men and women bustling behind the desk central to the whole operation. They zipped every which way busily, there must have been many, many people needing treatment here.
We were led by our beautiful new friend and her sweet little daughter to the room we were looking for. We crossed in to find a very thin, frail man asleep in his hospital bed. We filed in reverently, not knowing where to stand or what to do.
His eyes fluttered open and his warm gaze rested upon us, greeting us thankfully. “He’s just finished his big surgery today, so his body is very weak.” Our friend told us in English. I was shocked at the smile on his face and the love in his eyes paired with the pain and exhaustion that comes with chemotherapy and cancer battles. This man was at peace. This man was comforted.
We circled around his bed after asking if it was okay to pray for him and sing quietly over him. I got to hold his hand as we prayed and I was overwhelmed with compassion. Tears began to run ceaselessly as we prayed. I felt like there was fire in both of my hands, they were hot, electric, sparking. We prayed boldly, while our friend translated for us. I saw a curtain of fire in my prayers surrounding his room, his bed, separating him from those spirits of fear, despair, hopelessness, sickness, and all other kinds of darkness that lurk in hospitals. We sang over him, and read some verses.
I cried the entire time, I could not believe how much love I felt for him. I hung my head in prayer, worship, while we read verses, but when I lifted it again, I saw that he too was crying. We held each other’s gaze for a few moments, tears streaming quietly, poignantly speaking louder and truer than any language barrier.
My heart pounded as I sang “In my life Lord, be glorified,” over and over again. This man came to Christ after his diagnosis. He hit the worst of the worst, the bottom of the pit, and there he decided to take God up on His offer for restoration. Redemption. I could see in every inch of that weakened, fighting, burdened body that he knew Jesus. The peace in suffering, the faith in the storm, the rejoicing at the little things, these are all super natural. It’s in opposition to our human condition to meet grief with thankfulness. God’s full glory is made perfect in our weakness. I was in awe at his faith.
And simultaneously I have to hand over all suffering, all sickness, all sadness to The King of Kings. Because what I WANT to do is yell and cry and ask God what the big idea is in these situations. When this is my mom with cancer, when this is my brother in a bus wreck, when this is my sister suffering, my Family torn apart and worn thin, when this is my weakness…when you can see all the pain…I ask God why?
God endures forever. He is Good. He is Faithful. He is Righteous. He does everything perfectly on time, and the tapestry of humanity that’s unfurling before us right this very moment is magnificent, so intricately woven together that we can’t even BEGIN to fathom it’s wonder. So I know He is Good and I don’t doubt that, which is when I’m forced to acknowledge that there’s another force at work here.
The world isn’t working the way it was designed to. There was a fundamental break somewhere way way back there that gave power to presences that should not be in power because they are not good. I believe that God’s promise that he’d write the law on our hearts has been fulfilled because of the way that we all look at things like sickness and disaster and tragedy and know that’s not right. Though we would rather turn our faces, stop up our ears, go on with our own lives, something else in us says to take pause and fight because that is not right.
So I’ll stand firm on the battleground, even when I’d rather pretend there’s no battle at all, even when I think I’d rather press myself flat to the wall and slink away, even when the attacks are relentless and cruel and subtle and stinging. I will stand firm in the truth that God is Good. And I will fight against sickness. I will fight against suffering and sadness in love. In compassion. In prayer, in worship, for God who accepts us as we are, but lovingly doesn’t leave us how He found us.
He’s given me more love than I could possibly hold on to and I have no intention of doing so.
As we turned to leave, backpacks on and sneakers noisily squeaking at full volume on pristine linoleum hospital floors, I took one more look at him lying in his bed. My eyes raked over his thin frame, exhausted, looking feather light atop his white sheets. Like a leaf that could’ve been easily lifted by the wind and carried off. So small. His weathered skin that has known suffering of a different kind than I have ever known. A fuzzy crown of hair still adorning his head. But there, hidden amongst beeping machines, tubes, pain, trays, tests, and schedules, was a peaceful smile spread on his face, and tears sliding down tired cheeks.
Thank you Jesus, and I pray that you’ll bless him and make his body healthy again, freeing him of sickness.
Amen…