“And if not, He is still good.”featured

Daniel 3:18 (title verse inspired by Brick House in the City)

As I sit here on the eve of my next set of scans, our home entering into the quiet that will fill almost all the hours until I leave for my appointment, I’m reflecting on my friend Meg’s words. And there’s something I need you to know. 

Every atom of my being longs for the miracle of full healing. 

For time to raise our children. To rejoice in their moments of joy and sit with them in their heartbreak. To someday welcome their children and watch our family grow. To stand by their side as they struggle and learn and grow in their faith. And through it all, to assure them that they are needed. Irreplaceable. Imbued with sacred worth. 

To continue building a life with Jeff. To learn to love more deeply and selflessly. To have more children. To catch each other’s eye as we smile, shrug, and shake our heads at the miracle and exasperation of raising unique, growing souls and crafting a family culture rooted in faith and longing for beauty. To travel the world and grow old together. Never losing the thrill of new places seen in the safety and warmth of our love. 

To become a better friend, daughter, and sister. To follow the example of my dearest friends and family who show me daily how to authentically walk and rejoice and mourn and live together. 

To read. To learn. To soak in the wisdom of saints, theologians, historians, artists, and storytellers following the same beauty that calls my soul. To share in the frustration of words and images that never fully grasp it. And in the exhilaration of shared glimpses. Mutual moments of clarity. 

I want to live it all. To see the beauty in the brokenness that only exists because of the brokenness. To be continually surprised by the abundance and intimacy of grace. 

But if that miracle doesn’t come, I know with every fiber of my being that He is still good. 

If life becomes unrecognizably filled with pain, I know that He is with me. Aching for my pain. Finding people and moments to show me glimpses of His steadfastness. Of His abundant mercy and love. To hold and comfort me at each step. 

If Jeff and my children and all who love me must mourn my death, I know they are not abandoned. Because He has promised to stay close to those who mourn. Who are lonely. Who feel broken and lost and abandoned. 

That is where my hope truly lies. 

Not in the fact that miraculous healing is possible, though it certainly is. But that if the miracle doesn’t look like I want. If our hearts ache and crack. If we feel far from hope and abandoned. We are not. 

There is no chapter of my story, and certainly no ending, that is not transformed by His grace. No pain or brokenness He will not comfort. No deficit He cannot fill. 

What profound peace there is in abandoning my own narrative to the author of my life, my redemption, and my salvation.