On Being Loved

Last night was tough. For some reason Andrew's anti-nausea medication was given to us in pill form. That isn't such a big deal during the day, but how do you give a kid who needs meds every four hours to keep him from getting sick a pill when he's asleep? The answer of our nurses while we were in the hospital, "Just let him sleep, he probably won't need it." They were wrong.

At about 11:30 last night (roughly an hour and a half after he should have gotten his next dose of medication) Andrew woke up crying. What came next I won't describe only to say that there was clean up involved and holding a scared little boy. We felt many things, fear over what to do, panic over how to get an anti-nausea pill in the stomach of a child who is extremely nauseated, frustration over the fact that even our oncologist thought it strange that we hadn't been given IV Zofran, and exhaustion since yesterday was so intense in so may ways. In the midst of the weariness and confusion though something else cut through. As I sat there on the edge of the tub holding Andrew what cut through all of the fear and anger was love. As Andrew looked up at me in some state of half sleep all I could say was, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." In that moment my fear didn't matter, my frustration didn't matter, and certainly my lack of sleep didn't matter. I suppose what I am saying is that at midnight last night the heart of this father was captured by another, a son who was suffering and didn't know why.

Eventually, like most children, Andrew wanted to return to his mother's arms. It is a valuable lesson in how each gender uniquely reflects the image of God that kids will normally seek their mother for comfort and nurture and their father for protection and shelter... I digress. We crushed a pill into a teaspoon of water and it was quickly swallowed. Shortly thereafter Andrew fell asleep there, being held by the arms that first held him as Jessie and I looked at each other and grappled with the new "normal" we were living in. We laid him in bed and found our way back to our place of slumber pausing only long enough to set an alarm for 4:20am... we didn't want this happening again.

This morning, while all this was still bouncing around in my now very exhausted brain, we set about the task of preparing to get as many of us as possible to church. Given Andrew's night we were not sure what was in store for today except that the girls would come with me for Sunday School (I preached today) and Jessie, her mom, Andrew, and Luke would follow later if everyone was feeling up to it. I honestly didn't expect to see them.

After several mis-starts, which caused me no small amount of consternation, the girls and I were on our way. The morning hadn't gone as I'd planned; we were late out the door, I didn't get to review my sermon at all, and I was wrestling with the probable disappointment of not seeing my family, whole again, and worshipping together. Like many Sunday morning trips to church the drive consisted of repenting to my girls for being short and grumpy with them (the outgrowth of said consternation), and praying desperately for the service. Among the many things I prayed for, that my family would be there and that we would see some first time visitors (a group we haven't seen much of over the holidays).

To make a long story shorter, not long before the service was going to start I turned to see a beautiful sight, my bride carrying a blue eyed boy, thumb in mouth and blanket in hand. I want to take a minute at this point and simply praise my wife. I'm not sure if anyone will recognize the amount of courage it took to walk through those doors. Despite the assurances of our doctors that large group gatherings are fine so long as people keep their general distance, the lure of a safe, controlled environment like home is a siren's song difficult to resist. There are less variables at home, less chances for things to go wrong, and yet they came. It may seem like a small thing to some, a foolish thing to others, but I see amazing courage in my wife to look her fears of being out of control in the face and tell them they won't have the last word.

As we began the service I watched as the seats slowly began to fill... it seems no matter how late you begin 10 minutes later is always a better time. I noticed some movement out of the corner of my eye and turned to see two people I have never seen before come in and sit down. I looked down and immediately began to cry. I will be the first to admit that my prayer life leaves a lot to be desired and many times it takes a whole lot of effort to simply believe that what I am saying is being heard beyond my drywall. It has been a rare thing in my spiritual life to see immediate answer to prayer, though perhaps I should say it has been rare for me to recognize immediate answer... you decide. This morning, as I cried the one thing that was resounding in my head was simply this, "You love me Jesus, you really do."

Now I'm a pastor and so that would seem to be a pretty elementary principle, and in terms of concepts it is; in terms of experience it is not. This morning I was confronted by a God who knows that I am struggling, tired, weak. This morning I was confronted by a king who understands my feelings of helplessness, of stress, of chaos. This morning I was confronted by a Father who grasps the sight of a son who hurts and wants him only to know he is loved. Because of my own stuff, the strange mix of ugliness and beauty in my story, I have often (always?) understood God in various degrees of angry. At my best God tolerates me because I tricked him by wearing my "Jesus-suit" so that he really sees Jesus and not me. This morning I saw something more. This morning I saw a Father who knew that I was stressed over lack of preparation for my sermon, afraid of having to take my son back to the hospital because he won't eat, sad because my life will never be the same, and knowing this wanted to give me a gift. It wasn't a huge gift or one that would be readily recognized by anyone else. Nonetheless it was gift so personal to where I was living this morning that I couldn't miss it. It was a gift that said to me what my weak words tried so hard to say last night,
"I'm sorry that you're hurting. I love you"