Strength That Looks a Lot Like Weakness

People keep telling me how strong I am. “Strong?”, I think. “Me? Strong? No way.”A war rages within my soul 100% of the time. I’ve barely slept, barely eaten, barely left his side. I’m so overwhelmed in every moment. I’m afraid to hope for healing, because I’m afraid I won’t be able to handle it if healing doesn’t come in the way I so desperately want it to arrive. And I’m afraid not to hope for healing. 

I’m waiting this morning for doctors to start coming into the room. This is life now. Waiting. Today feels more significant, because today they have scans of his brain in their hands, scans that give us a path, scans that tell us what our new normal will be. I’m learning with ever-increasing clarity that preaching to self is the hardest thing to do. Do you want to know the super secret reason that I’m so “strong”? It’s pretty simple, really. I haven’t the strength to manage anything on my own. I’m too weary to carry this load. The only option I have is to place it in the hands of Jesus and let God do what only God is fully capable of doing. Because right now, I have to remind myself to breathe at nearly every moment. And even that feels like a crippling burden. 

Let’s just be real here, guys. What I write here is only a fragment of the whole story, just as what you post on Facebook or Twitter or your blog or even verbally disclose to someone reveals only a fragment of who you are to them. And because we are fragmented, because we are so very connected without really being connected at all, we tend to look at the person in the situation that isn’t our own and say things like, “I couldn’t do that!”. Truth is, when God places you on a path, even a twisted one full of danger and hardship, that path looks straight to you as you walk it, because that’s the way He works. 

“In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make straight your paths.” Proverbs 3:6
This winding roller coaster of a road we’re walking is so, so straight. And it is well lit too. Even when I can see nothing but darkness, the people around us are shining bright streams of light in front of me. It’s moments like these, when late into the night I was messaging with a dear friend so broken I couldn’t find words and I couldn’t find hope. She flooded my mind and heart with good, hard, deep truths:
“He gave that voice [the voice of lament] because faith doesn’t mean the absence of doubt. Faith doesn’t mean the absence of hopelessness. Faith means screaming or whimpering that hopelessness and those questions toward God.”
And she’s so right. Those words are so true. 
The Lord is as faithful now as He was before we were staring brain cancer in its big, ugly eyes. And He will be faithful no matter what results we get today. Speaking of results…
We are currently waiting to meet with doctors about the MRI results and learn more about what is ahead of us. We should meet with them some time today. One of the doctors came in a little while ago and told us that we are being moved out of the ICU and onto a floor specifically for neurology patients. Jesse should be hooked up to less monitors and have a bit more freedom there. He’s grateful for that. The physical therapist has him up and walking right now. It’s so good to see him out of his tiny hospital bed. 
We are still praying big prayers to a bigger God that Jesse will experience the kind of miraculous healing that makes people turn their eyes to Jesus and place their hope in Him alone. Would you pray that with us? And would you pray that God give us such a peace about whatever He has for us? We need that so desperately.