Finding the Love That Will Not Let Me Go
The doctors relayed their decision; we listened intently. Our boys must be delivered as soon as possible by urgent C-section. The following day, they were born at 34 weeks’ gestation. Luke weighed 4 pounds and 14 ounces. Matthew weighed 4 pounds and 7 ounces.
Both were swept into the NICU. Later that evening, Mark wheeled me down to meet our tiny sons. Both boys were on oxygen and had feeding tubes. Wires and tubes trailed from their tiny arms and legs. Their preemie diapers came up to their little armpits, and their beanies nearly obscured their scrunched faces. The nurses let me touch them; each head fit easily in the palm of my hand.
In the months that followed, Matthew’s lagging development became starkly apparent. Luke smiled and steadily gained strength and skill. Matthew still struggled with sucking, swallowing, and holding up his head. The gap between the boys’ development grew wider with each week. I openly communicated my concerns to our pediatricians. They set up a consultation with a developmental pediatrician. He immediately recognized that Matthew had severe developmental disabilities. They would most likely be his reality and ours for all of his life.
The air went out of my world. I was faithful, so devoted to God; how could He allow this? I prayed so faithfully, precisely and fervently. Why do this to a helpless preemie, to me, to us? It seemed cruel. I knew enough of Scripture to know God was not cruel; nevertheless, my world was crashing in slow motion, and I was powerless to stop it.
Before me gaped a yawning chasm between my heartbreaking circumstances and my ability to understand why my miracle-working God seemingly had no intention of healing my infant son. Rather, He intended to walk us down a hard road of perpetual heartache and ongoing disappointment. In the process, He intended to place me in His crucible and burn away the dross in me, until He saw the reflection of Himself.
Scripture shows that God allows unbelievable hardship into the lives of His people for His holy purposes. His desire is our growth and purification rather than our immediate comfort. Therefore, what looks and feels like senseless cruelty to us is truly meant to re-shape us in ways only suffering can accomplish.
Those faithful servants who were well-versed in pain grew stunningly close to Him as their suffering stripped away all they held fast, forcing them into complete dependence upon God. Those who walked most closely with Him allowed their suffering to drive them straight into the everlasting arms of the Eternal God.
There, these suffering saints found uncanny strength under pressure and enjoyed an intimacy with their Savior unknown to others. If I planned to make it through what looked to be a life of continual heartache, that’s the sort of relationship I needed with Him.
It became apparent that my relationship with God was on point, yet untried by adversity. Scripture told accounts of both lifelong difficulty and miraculous deliverance. He was equally at work in both.
Faithful servants whose lives were marked by ongoing hardship seemed to walk in greater intimacy with Him than those who did not. There was a depth to them, no doubt forged on sleepless nights. There was an abiding trusting relationship between them and the Eternal God.
I grew up knowing prayer is powerful and effective; it’s our immediate link to our divine power source. I prayed, but it was mostly petitioning Him for my requests. I needed to be able to talk with Him as friend with Friend, with no holds barred, nothing off limits. I found examples of these transparent prayers in the Psalms. They overflowed with raw emotion and unvarnished questions. I identified and found freedom to pour out my soul in similar ways. I began our conversations predawn, and drifted off to sleep still talking with Him.
My relationship with Him began to change. I told Him everything. I told Him of my fears for our future, my dashed hopes, my deepest longings, and what I was learning from His word. I continually asked Him to give me strength for this journey and to make me both a faithful servant and a valiant warrior for truth in this difficult place.
He spoke to me through Scripture and the Biblically-based teaching pouring into my kitchen through Christian radio. I responded to Him in prayer. The more we talked, the closer we grew. The more I responded in prayer, the more He spoke through Scripture and sound teaching. Our bond became deep and strong.
Beneath all my questions ran the current of deep conviction that there was holy purpose in the pain. He was reshaping my soul in this crucible of pain, purifying me through adversity. He had done the same with His faithful servants throughout time, and He was doing the same in me.
This conviction was born out of deep trust in Him. I was continually experiencing His kindness, protection, and provision in ways that moved me to my core. I was committed to this journey with the Eternal God, and come what may, I planned to stay close to Him.
The relationship that began to grow in those early days matured into a deep, abiding bond forged in fire. It happened as I immersed my soul in the life-giving stream of Scripture and continually poured out my soul in prayer.
Scripture continually told me who He is, and prayer opened a powerful communication loop. They worked together to build an unshakeable, trusting relationship that sustained me on the hard road through the barren place.
In those early days, I never could have known that this road we walked together would take me through countless hospital stays, clinic and doctor appointments, and eventually to Matthew’s graveside.
Without the deep abiding bond between God and me, I never would have survived. It was our relationship that fueled my perseverance—a bond built by Scripture and constant prayer. It was the relationship that knit my soul to Him.
In that yawning gap between my broken heart and my inability to understand my harsh circumstances, He gave me Himself. He swept me into this love that still holds me when I cannot understand--this love that will not let me go.