Keep Fighting, Sweet One, Keep Fighting

That may be a test from God! Keep on believing His will read the text message in my messaging app. I stared at the phone. My sister-in-law was lying in a hospital bed in the ICU, fighting for her life after a serious car accident that totaled the car, left the driver dead, and seriously injured another passenger in the car. She was unconscious, had lost her spleen, had broken ribs and collapsed lungs, fluid around the heart and lungs, a broken shoulder and arm, and bleeding on the brain. On the second day, the doctor had said he couldn't guarantee she would make it past the next hour and, after a specialist came to examine her in the small town hospital she was in, the attending suggested they sign the papers to take her off the ventilator. 

It was then, after I'd sent out the umpteenth update to family and friends, keeping them informed in real time of the battle my sister-in-law was going through for her life, that I'd received this message from one of her friends. 

My reply was swift and curt. 

I don't believe God gives us bad things to test us. That is wrong Theology and not encouraging.

The other person fell silent. I continued to send updates to everyone except for them. 

It all seemed very unreal. Just two days before she had brought her little babysitting charge over to the house in the morning, on my day off, and we had enjoyed spending time with Seder. I taught him in Sabbath School so he already knew me, and when my husband brought out the puppet with the moustache that matched his own, the toddler laughed in glee. My husband leaned down to his level and said, moustache! and Seder tentatively reached out with both hands to touch the ends of my husband's moustache. 

That afternoon, she went down to babysit Seder during his nap and I headed to town to pick up her PCR test result so she could have a printed copy when she traveled. Restless, I decided to stop by the grocery store to pick up a couple of items and ended up buying groceries for a week, even though I knew we would be going to town on Friday for the regular shop. 

After she'd packed, we'd lugged her duffel suitcase up the back steps to the car. My husband, frustrated that she was going home against his advice, didn't come with us to the airport. He's not happy with me, she said sadly as I dodged minivans on the road. I didn't know what to say. They were both right. He for not wanting her to spend money she didn't have on a ticket home and she for wanting to see her mom after a difficult and depressing school year. Her friend was getting engaged and she wanted to be at the party. 3 months was a very long summer to while away, even if Seder was really cute and an easy child to babysit. 

We pulled up next to a luggage cart by the curb. She put her backpack and purse on the cart while she hurried to help me lift the duffel suitcase out of the trunk. I briefly noticed her purse left unattended and wanted to say, be careful, don't leave your purse alone like that, someone could take it, but didn't. 

I'll miss you, she said unexpectedly, as I gave her a hug goodbye. It was uncharacteristic of her to be so expressive emotionally. She was a quiet reserved person around me most of the time but we had been growing closer this past year. I'd started giving her a hug every time I saw her, between classes or if she came over to our house, and she had gotten accustomed to it and now moved forward expectantly when she saw me. I'll miss you too! I replied. 

You're sure you have your passport? I repeated for the second time. She laughed, patted her beige purse, and replied, Yes, I do. 

Okay, then. Go to the second door because usually the first door is closed. When you go in, turn right and go straight and you can see through the window, see? There is the place when you get in line. There's nobody there now so it will be easy for you. Send a message when you arrive safely, okay?

She nodded, then turned her luggage cart around and started pushing. I got into the car, fiddling with the entertainment system til I found a good radio station and then started pulling out. I peered inside as I passed the doors but didn't see her. 

22 hours later, I was sitting in the conference room at work, rechecking details on the graduation bulletin we were working on for the weekend. The last graduate had picked up their regalia and I was tired from a long day. I checked my phone and noticed several missed calls from my husband. I pressed redial. 

She's in the hospital. She was in a bad car accident. The car flipped over and burst into flames and the driver died, tumbled out as I could hear a slight panic in his voice. 

I am coming home, I'll be there soon. I said as reassuringly as I could. I stopped by my boss's office to let him know what had happened. He prayed with me, then, as I left the building, I saw the chaplain talking to another pastor. They also prayed with me. I hurried up the 174 steps and walked home as fast as I could. 

The next few days were a blur. That first night we didn't sleep properly. A thoughtful friend dropped by with watermelon; I'd prepared some for us to eat and at the last minute I'd switched bowls to give him the one with the nicest pieces. He'd enjoyed the snack—his second meal for the day—and I'd ended up with a bout of food poisoning. In between using the bathroom and answering calls from concerned family and friends, neither of us had gotten good sleep. The second night was better, though, and we could rest for an interrupted period of time. 

People came and went. Messages bombarded my phone. By Sunday, I'd turned off my notifications on one app. I communicated with my family and best friend through two other apps so I didn't need to be on that one. I was weary. Weary of it all. I couldn't even imagine how my husband felt as he coordinated everything from afar and gave the best advice he could. The tears came and went as we pictured her broken body lying in the hospital bed. 

As I sat for a quiet moment amidst the maelstrom of it all, a verse came to mind. 

I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. ~Psalm 27:13

I held on to that promise tightly. I didn't know what would happen in the next hours, days or even weeks. I didn't know if my sister-in-law would be able to get the emergency care she needed in time or if the injuries to her brain would be life-altering. I didn't know if God would work miracles and heal her completely for His glory. 

But this I did know. God did not close all doors, put us in darkness, and then say This is a test from Me. God was good. Satan was evil. God gave life. Satan came to destroy. Blame had to be rightly attributed to the source of where it came from and when it came to horrible things like this, the devil was to be blamed, not God. 

I did not know what God would do but this I was confident of—God would show His goodness, and only His goodness. And it would not be in the hereafter, it would be now. In the land of the living. So I would keep that close in my heart as we waited, prayed, and trusted in His care. It was all we could do now. 

Let Freedom Ring

I just saw the tomatoes. They're 125,000 for a kilo, my husband informed me as we met mid-veggie aisle, him off to weigh the lemons as I handed him a bag with 4 cucumbers and another with 6 carrots. I saw some tomatoes for 30,000 in another area, I replied. My eyes cut over to the fruit section. Yellow apples piled high under a sign that read 75,000. I groaned inwardly. There would be no apples in our cart today. 

As we got to the checkout, I carefully checked each item as it went through. Two cartons of juice for a work event rang up at 26,500 instead of the 14,500 I'd thought they were. Another two also rang up wrong, this time the mango flavour was registering as Thyme Z 360. It made no sense. I paid the cashier and told my husband to wait while I ran back into the store to check the prices. They'd been wrong before, so I wanted to double-check. 

When I neared the shelves, my eyes scanned the lines and instantly I knew my mistake. I had read the price correctly but not the brand. 8 rows of shelves were fully stocked with Maccaw juices of different flavours while each sticker underneath displayed an Uno brand with corresponding price. I'd failed to double-check the cartons with the price checker and now I would either have to return the cartons or have less cash to buy other items for the work event. 

I turned and saw two young men in store shirts. They had been there earlier stocking the shelves when I'd grabbed the cartons of juice. You need to change all these stickers, I informed them. They all say Uno but this is Maccaw juice. They looked at me as if I had grown a third head. Sighing inwardly at the inability of the store employees to do anything useful, I grabbed 4 cartons of the cheaper juice and headed back to the checkout. 

After my purchase, I dug out the expensive cartons and hurried to the customer service. You need to change the prices on your shelves. I just wasted a lot of money because the prices were wrong, words spilled out, as the two ladies stared at me. I want to return these juices. They rang up the return, handed me my cash, and then stared at me again until finally a bell registered. Do you want your receipt back? I nodded and they circled something on the receipt, then handed it back to me. I looked at the receipt. They had circled the 4 juice cartons I had kept; not the ones I had returned. 

Infuriated at the ineptitude of everyone overall, I marched back over to my patiently waiting husband. Let's get out of here, I said. We went to the car, unloaded our purchases, and drove home. 

Two days later, I woke up to a perfect spring day. I pulled on my exercise tennies, downloaded the latest podcast of BBC Global News, grabbed my house key, and off I went. After an hour of vigorous walking, I washed my hair and prepared a tasty shanklish breakfast replete with fresh veggie tray and briny olives for a delightful meal on the balcony overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. It was a most marvelous start to the day.

Until a couple of hours later, I found myself in my room, door closed, recording an audio as tears emptied themselves into my eyes and ran down my cheeks. I can't do this anymore, I said, as I recounted the events of the past couple of days. I'd reached my breaking point and I. Just. Couldn't. Manage. Any. More. 

Except I had to. Because I didn't have a choice. 

It was more than apples, tomatoes or cartons of juice. It was the constant wearing down that had been going for the past 31 months with no end in sight. The anxiety that made me jump each time the power switched between city and generator, plunging us into darkness for a minute or more. The stench of burning garbage that mingled with raw sewage and factory waste so freely littering the air. Trying to make a budget that could keep up with the racing prices, only to throw it all to the wind the next month as gas, bread, and seeds jumped, yet again. Gas had passed 500,000 for 20 liters. It had been 23,000 before this whole fiasco had started.  

I lived by charts, calculating over and over how much we could spend on groceries this week, how much we could save for the next car repairs that would undoubtedly come along, and worrying whether we would have to shell out some of our hard-earned dollars because the exchange rate would have soared past hyperinflation into ultrahyperinflation, if there even was such a thing. The Telegram group I'd joined to keep informed on which latest catastrophe loomed predicted the rate would increase 100fold. I was caught in a tug-of-war between the reality of maddening insanity where nothing made sense and a group of calmly chanting Christians whose mantra Just trust God did nothing to calm my churning insides. 

A favourite saying of the conservatives goes, "God never leads His children otherwise than they would choose to be led, if they could see the end from the beginning and discern the glory of the purpose which they are fulfilling as co-workers with Him." (The Saving Providences of God, March 5) It's not true. I never chose the path my feet were set on before I could learn to walk. Packed up like one of the many suitcases our family trailed around the world, I moved hither and yon without a voice. Without a choice. 

I wanted to go to a mainstream university but we didn't have the money. I wanted to get married and settle down with a family when I was in my 20s. Have the whole white-picket fence, one car, a golden retriever, husband with a 9-to-5 job, two kids, and some semblance of security. Instead, here I was, in my 40s, still living someone else's life and following someone else's path. Not mine. 

Some days my eyes trace the contrails in the sky of a Boeing 787 Dreamliner, wistfully longing to be sitting inside it as it leaves this country far, far behind. Other days, I don't even look to the skies as I try to hold my mind together just long enough to get through another day. Accusing voices tell me to be thankful for what I have, after all, I'm not suffering like those who have to dig through garbage. The louder the voices, the deeper I retreat into myself. 

Until one day, I say out loud, I can't do this anymore. And in that moment I know. 

I don't have to. 

Don't Take Your Foot Off the Gas Pedal

I bowed my head in prayer, pleading earnestly with God to send away the devil's bacteria and fill the house with good angels. My husband had been coughing for the past 2 hours, an unfortunate hanging on of a Covid cough that had appeared more than a month after he'd gotten over Covid. Nothing seemed to help, not steaming, lozenges, little black licorices, honey, hot tea, cough syrup, antihistamine, or salt water gargles. We had tried them all. Nothing made a difference; the only thing that worked was when he slept. He could put himself to sleep in about 10 minutes and once his body had relaxed in sleep, the cough disappeared. By morning, he was right as rain only to repeat the process again the next evening. 

We couldn't figure out what triggered it. The first time, he had wheezed and rattled away in his sleep for nearly 2 hours before his breathing finally smoothed out. After that, though, the wheezing disappeared. He had a hard time breathing deeply but he could get enough oxygen to his lungs. Yet why the cough started, we couldn't understand. Sometimes, eating crackers and hummus set it off. Another time, it seemed to be the salted sunflower seeds. This evening we had gone for a walk and he'd been coughing as we walked but not every couple of minutes. 

Being on an extremely short leash with my anxiety levels soaring, I hadn't managed it very well when he'd started the cough. I would go to another room because I couldn't bear to hear him struggling to take a deep breath and having difficulty doing so. I waited to go to sleep until he was sleeping, because I couldn't relax until I knew he was okay again. I measured his oxygen levels with an oximeter, relieved that they stayed above the danger level, and quizzed him as to whether he had trouble getting enough oxygen into his lungs. 

I can breathe all right, he said, it's just my throat that feels tickly. 

As he started his evening seminar in the study, I began to pray in the living room. I thought of myself as the prayer warrior wife—ready to do battle with the devil for the next two hours. Suddenly, tears formed in the corner of my eyes. I wasn't a prayer warrior type of person. I was just barely holding myself together during these challenging times, let alone able to intercede in that way for another. Anxious that my inability to mentally focus on "storming the gates of heaven" for the next two hours meant my husband would not be able to teach, I was startled when a gentle thought came into my mind. 

I can take care of him. 

He can take care of him, I thought almost wistfully. I'd prayed that God would heal my husband, even if only for 2 hours, telling Him, If You want to, I know You can. Reminiscent of the parables where others had asked Jesus to heal them, I repeated the age old words. But then I realized, I was not the one who determined the final outcome. 

I was not the one with the foot on the gas pedal. 

So many times in life, particularly as Christians, we experience the pressure of feeling like we are the ones in control. If we don't pray hard enough, don't do enough outreach, or don't give enough of our monetary resources, then people will perish and the burden will be on us for failing to tell God what to do. As my husband had started speaking, I had felt like I was responsible to pray for two hours straight, repeating the same phrases over and over, almost like a mantra, in order to appease a God Who had the power to control my husband's impossible cough. 

Yet that wasn't it at all. If God was a loving God, compassionate and caring, then surely He cared not only about the people my husband was talking to but also my husband. He would make it possible for my husband to speak, either with a cough or despite the cough. What mattered was not that my husband was cured because of my Fireproof prayers, but that he had the ability to speak through the challenges. 

Several weeks ago, my husband had gone to apply for a visa. We'd prayed together before he left and, after going 5 times to the same office, his papers were finally accepted. Two days later, he was called to the consulate's office to meet with them. Again, we'd prayed together before he left. This time, however, the consulate informed him that, while his papers were in order, he was not able to grant a visa due to extenuating circumstances. 

Why did God answer the first prayer and not the second? Had I not prayed hard enough or long enough to change His mind? 

When we look in the Bible, there are many examples of prayer. Some are specific to time, such as Moses holding up his arms so the Israelites would win the battle. Or Jesus praying all night to connect with His Father. These were long for a reason. Yet Jesus Himself did not condone long prayers as He pointed out the long prayers of the religious leaders as an example of what not to do. The prayer Jesus taught His disciples was short but meaningful so length obviously was not a requisite to be heard by God. 

The purpose of prayer is to connect with God. Prayer changes us; not God. God is ultimately in control and His decisions are always what is best for us and for the universe, even when those who choose to go against Him seem to be winning. We think God is distant, absent even, and that we have to shout loudly so He will wake up and hear us when this is not Who God is at all. Isaiah prophesied long ago, saying, But have you not heard? It was I, the LORD, Who decided this long ago. Long ago I planned what I am now causing to happen," (Isaiah 37:26)

God loves us. God loves you. God loves me. God is love. If His very essence is love, then will He not take care of us in the midst of the stormy darts that the devil insists on hurling at us? 

Just as God decided long ago what would happen today, God also foresaw the challenges we would face. He knew my husband would be struggling with Covid-cough. He knew people would be waiting to listen to him share the good news. He knew that those who were listening would one day make life-changing decisions for Him. And in the midst of all of that, He cared for my husband so he could speak without obstacle, in God's power and strength moving forward. 

So I said my prayer and in doing so, I knew God heard and would answer. I took my foot off the gas pedal and realized the car was still whizzing down the highway of life. And in that moment, I realized. The car was never powered by gas, anyhow. It was powered by Love.