Laying ourselves at the altar

When my daughter Anna was a toddler, if she hurt herself, she would lay the damaged appendage on a pillow. It didn’t matter if it was a bruised shin, a rash on her arm, or a stubbed toe. Propping whatever was sore on a soft, fluffy pillow — sometimes with a fuzzy, warm blanket over the pillow for extra emphasis — immediately made it feel better. Whatever hurt would get better, as long as it was lovingly cushioned and gently propped on something soft.

One day, Anna was running a fever. I left her in the living room watching TV, and when I went in to check on her, I wanted to laugh and cry all at once. She had taken all the pillows from the couch and laid them, end to end, on the floor. Then she stretched her little feverish body out on top of them, her entire body cushioned by the pillows. Every part of her hurt, therefore her whole body needed to be cradled. Because of the relief she found there, she was now sound asleep.

Sometimes we need the same thing. We come to the altar and kneel, offering ourselves for His service, for His use — well, at least we offer parts of ourselves. As adults, with our own hurts and bruises, we hold things back. I want to be used by You, God, we might say, but secretly we’re hoping not to be asked to step outside our comfort zones. We want to help – until we feel the nudge to help someone we don’t know and we feel awkward walking up to them. Or we want to give, but only give our money, holding selfishly onto our time. But maybe it’s time we let God get hold of all our parts. It’s time to lay them all on His merciful altar, cushioned by His grace. So that He can get hold of all of us, and use us as He sees fit.

A miracle-working God

Flipping through my journal, found this entry from July 20, '08. Mom was in chemo and had been diagnosed with small-cell lung cancer the month before. We didn't really know what would happen, and, frankly, the prognosis didn't look good. This is what I wrote:

Today, up in the choir loft while we were singing, I had my eyes closed, praying. Sandee was standing beside me. Suddenly I felt her hand pressing into my back and I heard her praying. I had to focus on blocking out what was going on around us, had to not worry how I looked and if anybody noticed and wondered what we were praying about. The truth is, I didn't know. Then she placed her other hand on my stomach and kept praying, crying...

Sandee told me later that God told her to touch my back — right there — and pray. She argued with Him but it was clear — DO IT. She thinks maybe it had to do with my mom. Mom goes in Tuesday for new scans and gets the results Thursday. Maybe God healed her — erased new growth, or progressed the amount of healing from the chemo, or something. Maybe He healed her; maybe He took care of some immediate pain or problem. I don't know. But how sweet of Him to use Sandee — and allow me to be a part of it — since I seem to be having such a hard time really praying right now.

I write this down tonight in the hope that I will someday look back at this and know this was a time of healing. Maybe complete, maybe partial. I don't care. I just want to see evidence of God in here, in this. I want to find hope and moments of rejoicing. I want to glory in the gracious, merciful healing powers of our Lord. I want my mommy to be OK.

A year later, I rejoice in Mom's continued health. God is so good. I'm so thankful that He urges me to write things down so I can look back later and know without a doubt what I was thining, what I prayed, and see the many miracles He brings into my life. They're there; we just don't always notice them.

Wearing a wig

When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, one of the things that was difficult for her was going out in public knowing people were looking at her. She was afraid people would be watching her to see if she had lost her hair, if she had on a wig, if she was losing weight, if she looked sick yet... And people may have been watching, but the good news is she looked great through it all. It’s been several months, and my mom is healthy (thank you, Lord!). People are curious, though. Today I saw an acquaintance of hers, and she said she’d seen my mom the other day, “But how is she?”

“Great,” I replied, and started thinking.

Typically, when we look at people on the outside, ourselves included, and we see nothing unusual, we decide everything must be fine. And that’s how we want it. We don’t want people watching us, looking for signs that our health is failing. We don’t want the stigma of being labeled with a disease. If no one knows it’s there, we don’t have to talk about it. But at the same time, no one can help us treat it.

With my mom, since people know something is (or might be) “wrong,” they wonder. They can’t tell by appearances, so they ask. But how many of us have something painful on the inside that no one ever sees, that no one knows to ask about? We might be eaten up by guilt, or fear, or regret, or sorrow. Most of what hurts us can’t be seen on the outside. Thank God He knows our hearts, that He can see what the world misses. That He knows to talk to us, and soothe, and touch, and heal, even when others don’t know we need help. We’re good at covering; we hide our “illnesses” better than a great wig with perfect highlights and a cute cut hides a bald head. So maybe it’s time to bare all before the Lord, and let Him do His thing.