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“Such things come from God and from Him alone, and … before Him there can only be subjection, perseverance, patience – and gratitude. So every question ‘Why?’ falls silent, because it has found its answer.”
- Dietrich Bonhoeffer (writing in a letter to Hans von Dohnanyi, from Tegel prison, 1943
There have been seasons in my life when God has seemed very, very quiet. I have found such seasons difficult. Life feels dry, and faith plods. Spiritual disciplines become more about the discipline than the spiritual, a matter of going through the motions. The worst part of such periods is not knowing when they will end. Wondering if maybe this time – they won’t.
But there have also been times when I’ve seen God everywhere and in everything. Fool that I am – even such seasons as these are not without concern – for I find myself worrying that reveling in them too much might bring them to an end.
And then there are moments when God seems to intervene. Intervenes so obviously, so directly, it knocks the wind right out of me, leaving me breathless, gasping and on my knees, thankful for God’s mercy and grace.
Such was my experience today.
Our youngest, Jenna, was diagnosed with idiopathic adolescent scoliosis in the spring of 2010. Her first X-ray – in July of that year – revealed a curve of 19 degrees. Six months later, another X-ray indicated the curve had progressed to 25 degrees. At that point, our doctor referred her to the scoliosis specialists at Sick Kids hospital. It took until June, 2011 to get an appointment. By then, the X-rays revealed her curve had progressed to 35 degrees – but, they told us, Jenna had stopped growing so there was nothing that would be done.
Seeking another opinion, our doctor arranged for Jenna to be seen by the specialists at McMaster Children’s Hospital. They agreed with the conclusions of the doctors at Sick Kids, but arranged for Jenna to have an MRI to ensure there were no underlying medical conditions which might have caused the rapid progression of her curve. A follow-up appointment with a neurosurgeon assured us there were none – and the minor degeneration and bulging in a couple of her discs was no cause for serious concern, but the specialists said they would continue to track with Jenna for a while to ensure there was no further worsening of her condition.
Today was our first follow-up appointment. Jenna had another X-ray of her spine and then we went in to see the doctor.
“I have good news for you!” she said. “I’ve looked at this X-ray every which way and the only way I can read it is 23 degrees.”
My jaw dropped. Scoliosis doesn’t reverse itself. How was this possible?
“The only thing I can think of is that the June X-ray was wrong,” said the doctor. “We’ll bring Jenna back for one more appointment – six months from now – just to be sure this miracle is what it seems. If everything’s ok you won’t need to come again,” she concluded, offering me the Kleenex box.
This miracle.
We fairly floated out of the hospital. The curve labelled “moderate” in the fall is now considered “minor.”
This miracle.
It was only once Jenna and I were in the car that I told her that a dear friend of mine – named Jana (the woman for whom Jenna was named) had prayed for her this summer, in the wake of that 35-degree result. My friend is a woman of stronger faith than mine, and when she prayed that God would straighten out Jenna’s spine I remember thinking, “I love my friend and I’m grateful for her prayers, but I don’t think God works like that.”
I never mentioned Jana’s prayers to my daughter until today. “I didn’t think God worked like that,” I explained.
“Apparently, He does,” Jenna said.
Apparently, God does.
You can attribute this experience of ours today to a mistake or a miracle. I find I don’t need to give it a label. I don’t need to know “Why?”
I just need to give thanks.
***
Here’s one from the archives … enjoy!
In the midst of a season that involves so much busyness, bustle and time immersed in crowds, I have a favourite Christmas tradition that soothes my introverted soul.
Every year about this time, I like to take a few minutes off – by myself – to gaze at a photograph in my son’s baby book. And I remember.
It’s not a very good photograph. Fading and trimmed at an odd angle, I glued it there almost 17 years ago. But the memory it evokes leaves me humbled, with gratitude and Christmas joy in my heart.
It’s a group shot. Seventeen people are dressed ridiculously in bathrobes or burlap, artificial beards covering their chins, towels concealing their hair, dollar store tinsel encircling their heads.
My husband Doug stands up front, draped in an orange tablecloth. I sit beside him, wrapped in a blue shawl.
We face the camera. But to a person, we look not at the photographer, but into a wooden manger on the floor in front of us. There is tenderness in every eye, an expression of wonder on each face.
My infant son lies in the manger on a bed of hay. Eight months old, he sleeps soundly. His face is peaceful, his blond hair shimmering. One small pudgy hand peeks out through swaddling blankets.
I remember the moment captured by the photograph as if it happened yesterday.
We had been asked to play the Holy Family in our church’s Christmas pageant. Mark was the youngest baby in the church at the time, and our choir director wanted a real infant in the performance. All Doug and I would have to do, he said, was walk from the back of the church to the front—in costume and carrying our son—then remain there for some narration and a few carols.
I remember hesitating. Mark was far from a newborn; in fact he was walking, running everywhere, and his high energy levels had earned him the nickname “Mark the Spark”. Did the director want to risk having a baby Jesus who stood, babbled or bounced on his mother’s lap throughout “Silent Night”?
But the director persisted. So we agreed.
Pageant day dawned, and stress descended. My normally cheerful son was teething and feverish and out of sorts; he fussed all day. By the time we donned our costumes at church I was tired and overwhelmed, and Mark—past due for a feeding—was howling in protest. With only minutes to go before our walk to “Bethlehem,” I found a quiet spot to nurse him, and breathed a desperate prayer. (I don’t remember what I prayed, but I imagine it went something like, “Help!!!”)
Mark fell asleep. It felt like my very own Christmas miracle. Cradling him close, I joined Doug just in time to walk down the aisle.
Mark slept on. But he was heavy. Afraid to shift him in case he should wake up, my arms ached. Song after song, reading after reading. I remember looking longingly at the empty manger; it seemed a shame to waste it. So just before the pageant’s end, I gingerly placed him there, and felt relief spread over me as his little body settled into the yielding hay.
Relaxing for the first time that day, I gazed at my son in the soft glow of the candlelit sanctuary. And as I relaxed, it occurred to me that the whole point of our family’s participation in the pageant was to illustrate this one central fact of human history: the Son of God became a baby too. I had been so consumed fretting over my own baby that day, I’d almost missed the lesson: the enormity of the real Christmas miracle.
Divinity became humanity. Willingly. Jesus left the side of his Father in heaven, and clothed himself in human flesh to become a helpless, needy, dependent human baby. A baby who teethed and toddled just like my son. Just like all of us. He did it because of his great love for us. He did it, as Tim Huff writes in Bent Hope, “to promise the hope of abundant life, before he sacrificed his own.”
It’s a wonderful story. I believe it to be true.
May we reveal its truth in the way we live. And in the way we love one another.
Have a very Merry Christmas.
***
In the midst of a season that involves so much busyness, bustle and time immersed in crowds, I have a favourite Christmas tradition that soothes my introverted soul.
Every year about this time, I like to take a few minutes off – by myself – to gaze at a photograph in my son’s baby book. And I remember.
It’s not a very good photograph. Fading and trimmed at an odd angle, I glued it there almost 17 years ago. But the memory it evokes leaves me humbled, with gratitude and Christmas joy in my heart.
It’s a group shot. Seventeen people are dressed ridiculously in bathrobes or burlap, artificial beards covering their chins, towels concealing their hair, dollar store tinsel encircling their heads.
My husband Doug stands up front, draped in an orange tablecloth. I sit beside him, wrapped in a blue shawl.
We face the camera. But to a person, we look not at the photographer, but into a wooden manger on the floor in front of us. There is tenderness in every eye, an expression of wonder on each face.
My infant son lies in the manger on a bed of hay. Eight months old, he sleeps soundly. His face is peaceful, his blond hair shimmering. One small pudgy hand peeks out through swaddling blankets.
I remember the moment captured by the photograph as if it happened yesterday.
We had been asked to play the Holy Family in our church’s Christmas pageant. Mark was the youngest baby in the church at the time, and our choir director wanted a real infant in the performance. All Doug and I would have to do, he said, was walk from the back of the church to the front—in costume and carrying our son—then remain there for some narration and a few carols.
I remember hesitating. Mark was far from a newborn; in fact he was walking, running everywhere, and his high energy levels had earned him the nickname “Mark the Spark”. Did the director want to risk having a baby Jesus who stood, babbled or bounced on his mother’s lap throughout “Silent Night”?
But the director persisted. So we agreed.
Pageant day dawned, and stress descended. My normally cheerful son was teething and feverish and out of sorts; he fussed all day. By the time we donned our costumes at church I was tired and overwhelmed, and Mark—past due for a feeding—was howling in protest. With only minutes to go before our walk to “Bethlehem,” I found a quiet spot to nurse him, and breathed a desperate prayer. (I don’t remember what I prayed, but I imagine it went something like, “Help!!!”)
Mark fell asleep. It felt like my very own Christmas miracle. Cradling him close, I joined Doug just in time to walk down the aisle.
Mark slept on. But he was heavy. Afraid to shift him in case he should wake up, my arms ached. Song after song, reading after reading. I remember looking longingly at the empty manger; it seemed a shame to waste it. So just before the pageant’s end, I gingerly placed him there, and felt relief spread over me as his little body settled into the yielding hay.
Relaxing for the first time that day, I gazed at my son in the soft glow of the candlelit sanctuary. And as I relaxed, it occurred to me that the whole point of our family’s participation in the pageant was to illustrate this one central fact of human history: the Son of God became a baby too. I had been so consumed fretting over my own baby that day, I’d almost missed the lesson: the enormity of the real Christmas miracle.
Divinity became humanity. Willingly. Jesus left the side of his Father in heaven, and clothed himself in human flesh to become a helpless, needy, dependent human baby. A baby who teethed and toddled just like my son. Just like all of us. He did it because of his great love for us. He did it, as Tim Huff writes in Bent Hope, “to promise the hope of abundant life, before he sacrificed his own.”
It’s a wonderful story. I believe it to be true.
May we reveal its truth in the way we live. And in the way we love one another.
Have a very Merry Christmas.
***
This will be my last post for the season. I’ll be back when life returns to its normal routine in the New Year.
My kids can testify: I love to tell stories. Not the gloriously imaginative ‘once-upon-a-time’ stories some parents concoct to the delight of their offspring. I’m afraid my imagination isn’t up to that task. (Oh, I tried when they were small. But my make-believe stories were pretty lame and the kids and I both knew it. So we read a lot of books together, and they learned to go to their dad for their desired dose of one-of-a-kind ‘happily-ever-after’ tales.)
When pressed, I’d tell them non-fiction stories: stories I’d read in newspapers or books, or stories of the lives of people I’d had the privilege of meeting or interviewing.
But recently, I reflected on a story I don’t remember ever sharing with my kids.
And that’s a wrong I need to right. Because it’s a wonderful story. It’s true. It happened to me. And I consider it one of a handful of “miracles” that have occurred at timely junctures in my life, which convince me of God’s great love and care.
The year was 1985. I was 24, working at a job I loved at a Toronto television station. My shift started early – at 7 a.m. each day – and on this particular January morning, I was running a little bit late. But it was one of those beautiful, sunshiny, blue-sky winter days and so I was enjoying the drive.
Recently engaged, the ring on my left hand was still enough of a novelty that I held the steering wheel “just so” in the 10 o’clock / 2 o’clock position, so I could see the diamond send off sparks. Cruising north along the Don Valley Parkway in my beloved little Mazda GLC – my favourite Billy Joel cassette blaring – I sang along; happy to be in love. Happy to be alive.
Traffic was heavy but moving, not a hint in the air of what was about to happen.
Driving in the centre lane, the car immediately in front of me suddenly spun out. I didn’t even have time to think about my reaction. I just reacted, turning the steering wheel hard to the left to avoid that car. I didn’t hit it – or any other car for that matter – but I remember a sick, sinking feeling as my own little gold car spun out of control.
I don’t remember the impact when my car slammed into a light standard on the far right side of the parkway. I don’t remember the crunch of metal or the breaking of glass. I don’t remember the shrieking of other cars around me, as the light standard came crashing down over my car and onto the parkway, effectively trapping me in my car and closing the road for hours. I don’t remember the sirens of the ambulance or fire crew arriving to cut me out.
I do remember waking up, and the first thing I saw as I opened my eyes was my own reflection in the twisted rear view mirror. I remember mascara running in black rivulets down my cheeks. I remember wishing I’d worn waterproof mascara. I remember telling the firefighter not to “hurt” my now totalled car – when he made a move to free me from my seatbelt with a pair of scissors. I remember being loaded into the ambulance. I remember the frightened faces of loved ones when they arrived at the hospital. That’s about all I remember.
My injuries from that traffic accident kept me off work for three months. It was spring when I returned to my job, still sporting a walking cast.
I’d only been back at work a few days, when the receptionist called to tell me I had a visitor in the lobby. I walked out to see a complete stranger waiting for me. He greeted me with warm words and a warmer smile, then, with a look of mild shock and confusion exclaimed, “You don’t remember me, do you?!”
I was convinced I’d never seen the man before in my life.
“I’ve been calling the station every week to find out how you were,” he said. ”I was with you – at your accident,” he added. “I was the first one to get to you. My car was right behind yours. I knelt beside your window and held your hand until the fire crews arrived,” he added.
“And I stayed with you and prayed with you while they cut you out of the car.”
In all the years since then, I’ve never – not once – had so much as a moment’s recollection of any of that happening. But it comforts me immensely to know that when I was totally helpless, God saw to it that I was not alone.
