The
bright morning sun and clear blue sky did little to encourage me that summer
morning. As had been my pattern for the past several weeks, I was preparing to
travel twenty-five miles to the cancer treatment center where my sister, Deb,
would receive chemotherapy for her stage IV pancreatic cancer. The doctors had
told us there was little chance the chemo would do any good, but my sister was
holding out hope for a miracle—and so were we.
As I did each time I made the trip
to Deb’s chemotherapy treatment, I prayed that God would somehow make himself
known that day. I didn’t know how or in what manner this prayer would be
answered, but I asked him to help us see his light and sense his presence
during the day’s treatments.
Nevertheless, it didn’t seemed to
happen. The news from the doctors was never good, and my sister’s condition
continued to deteriorate quickly. At the last of these chemo treatments, Deb
was hospitalized for what turned out to be the final time before she passed
away.
I realized soon after her diagnosis
that Deb’s healing—or even her living for several more months—would take a
direct intervention from God. It would take a miracle. And I prayed for that
desperately. But even if God chose not to heal her, I wanted him to at least
make himself known in the midst of her dying—some way, somehow. I couldn’t
define how that would happen, but I thought I would recognize God’s hand—or
voice—somewhere in the journey.
But I didn’t.
In fact, as I was going through
those heart-wrenching months of watching my sister die, I didn’t particularly sense
or feel or hear God at all. It was almost as if he wasn’t there—like he was
hiding, withdrawing himself from my life.
This was similar to experiences I
heard other Christians talk about—a time when God seemed silent, distant,
unreachable. And often these times were during desperately difficult periods.
As the weeks turned into months
after Deb’s death, I began to think more deeply—and probably more clearly—about
God’s seeming silence. I talked with others and read books about making sense
of this experience. Yet I couldn’t shake what felt like God’s abandonment
during a time when I needed him most.
In general, we often associate
silence with contentment, comfort, and rest. But when it comes to hearing God’s
voice or feeling his presence, we tend to think of silence in the context of
loneliness, despair, pain.
To make matters worse, it’s easy to
fall into the trap of thinking the times of silence mark a period when God is
disappointed with us somehow—withdrawing his presence as a protest or to
discipline us for some action or inaction.
There is a popular bumper sticker
that precisely captures this sentiment: “If you do not feel close to God, guess
who moved?” However, it misses the point entirely.
About three months after Deb’s
death, I began to develop a more nuanced picture of where God was during her
illness. As I read Scripture and thought about it, one image stuck out in my
mind: the image of a mother caressing her child in the midst of a storm. It’s
the sense of being “bundled up” in the arms of a loving parent.
Silence doesn’t have to mark God’s
abandonment of us. It can just as easily mark his “bundling up” of us, much
like a mother bundles up her child before going out in the snow and cold. She
might not say much to the child, choosing instead to concentrate her energy on
keeping her child warm, safe, and comfortable. When the time comes—possibly when
they arrive at their destination or when they arrive back home—she may then open
up to her child, telling her about their trip, how much she loves her, and why
they are here.
That bundling up image is what I
came to believe God was doing to me—and other family members—during my sister’s
illness.
It’s also a notion demonstrated in
Scripture, where numerous times God is referred to as our father and protector.
This image has been popularized by the poem “Footprints of Jesus,” where the
Son of God is depicted as carrying us (bundling us up) during times of trouble
and difficulty.
As I began to feel more comforted by
this idea, I also began to notice tangible ways God’s presence had guided us
through those devastating months. I began to remember how little fear or anger
Deb had expressed during her illness. She never cried out in panic about what
was happening to her. She never expressed any doubt or trepidation with God. She
was always encouraging to us—and to the medical staff—regarding her condition.
I remembered how God was filling Deb
with his presence and giving her the comfort and assurance she needed to
navigate her journey. That infilling was also used to comfort those of us who
were traveling with her. By comforting her, God had ultimately helped comfort
her family and friends. We heard no audible voice, we did not feel his
presence. But I now see that God’s comfort to Deb was more powerful and
life-changing that anything an audible voice could have provided.
When I would walk into the cancer
center looking for some sign of God’s presence or his light, I ended up looking
right past the most visible expression of this—my sister. Through Christ, all
the assurance, comfort and light was there right in front of my eyes.
Although I thought God was silent
during my sister’s battle with cancer, he wasn’t. He filled Deb with his grace
and assurance, and he bundled me up. Without her grace-filled attitude and perspective,
I would not have been able to walk through those terrible months—her illness
and death would have been unbearable.
As a mother bundles up her child to
protect her from a storm, so too does our loving Father, who prepares,
protects, and provides for his children during life’s unspeakable tragedies.
While we might believe God is silent during our struggles, he in fact is
working—often behind the scenes—to insulate us from conditions and experiences
that otherwise we would not be able to handle.
