God does what seems best to him, which is, therefore, best. George Rawlinson, British scholar and Christian theologian
It was going to be a wonderful summer, the kind of summer we dream about in the middle of February—sunshine, grandkids in the pool all afternoon, trips to the beach, barbecues. There’s a lovely golden haze around these expectations. Weary of chilly weather and layers, we long for those bright days ahead. This year, what actually happened was another knee replacement surgery, the usual weeks of recovery, and a shocking death in our family. Of course the grandkids have been in the pool and we have had barbecues—and plenty of sunshine. But for much of the season I felt on the periphery of life around me.
This feeling isn’t unfamiliar—periods of disruption in life are part of life. Sometimes it’s a slow evolving. We realize that, wow, time is passing and our expectations are drifting away unrealized. But sometimes it’s that terrible loss for which we are never prepared.
We also know the question we should ask ourselves in difficult seasons: What is God teaching me? This doesn’t mean responses like, “Well, metal body parts are just the best!” Although they are, once you are past weeping during physical therapy, and able to walk upright and conscious.
I’ve been pondering how periods of difficulty are—or should be—courses in a certain kind of spiritual growth, and decided to share.
- Pain turns one’s focus inward. Total knee replacement is an excruciating experience, and I’m deliriously happy to only have two knees. Smack in the middle of May were weeks of severe discomfort, sleeplessness, and physical therapy. My husband knew the drill and stayed close with his help and his love. I thought often of people who live with chronic pain and disabilities and how I should live in an attitude of continual gratefulness for my normally good health. How easy it is to take for granted things that others suffer daily without. Pain is an effective teacher, and I hope my heart maintains a prayerful tenderness toward the afflictions of others.
- Sometimes it’s hard to pray—and that’s all right. The sudden death of my brother eleven days after surgery rocked our family. He was relatively young—fifty nine—and left behind a shattered wife and grieving sisters, nieces, and nephews. Cause of death turned out to be had a serious untreated heart condition. Many times during this period I found it hard to pray. A passage in writer Sue Monk Kidd’s book, When the Heart Waits, often came to mind. She relates how one evening, during a period of profound spiritual struggle, she was standing at her patio doors staring into an evening of thick fog.
Suddenly I was aware of my soul standing in the dark . . . unable to do anything but wait. I wanted to form words and petitions, but there was only the eerie stillness of my heart. Why couldn’t I pray? Why? I stood by the doors, watching the fog, everything in me hushed and unmoving, All at once I caught my reflection in the glass. I saw my posture silhouetted against the darkness. And it came to me in one of those grace-ful moments. I was seeing myself at prayer. I was praying. My still heart, my silence, the very posture of waiting against a backdrop of darkness was my prayer.
I have, at times, also found this to be true, times when my posture of just being quiet before the Lord had to be my prayer.
- Psalm 90:12. A remarkable psalm, beautifully written by “Moses the Man of God.” it begins with verses of meditation (1-6), followed by some verses of complaint (7-11) (it was Moses and is allowed). Then verse twelve begins his prayer:
Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.
These words have echoed in my mind often this summer. Teach me, Lord, to apprehend the divine gift of each sunrise. Teach me to welcome the gift with joy and thanksgiving. Help me gain a heart of wisdom and live each day as you have ordained.
Now, as autumn approaches, the knee is great. I continue to grieve my brother, but time does its healing work and there is the balm of memories. So much of what we learn is actually relearning what we already knew or have experienced in some way—to some degree. Through it all, what God deems best will always be best. There is unfailing comfort in that truth.