Rushing the Last Breath

This last week I wrestled through some of the highest highs and lowest lows of being a mom. I pleaded for my children’s safety and their salvation. I pushed myself physically and still fell short of the standard I held myself to as the nurturer of my family. I wrestled the bone-shaking chills and pain of pneumonia and of infection contracted during my recent hospital stay. I saw the toll of caring for me in the deep, tired lines around my husband’s eyes, and I spent hours praying without fully having words; begging for mercy, for redemption, for a soft heart, for a miracle. I laid curled in a ball, trying to will the wrenching pain of muscle spasms away, and pushed down panic at the weight around the sharp daggers that tore at my lungs with every inhale. And I wanted to quit.

I begged for God to take me. I considered the process available to hasten one’s demise once they are labeled with a terminal diagnosis. I even imagined what I might still have the strength to do in order to put an end to it myself: the bone-crushing agony of it all. The very core of my being downright cracked to pieces and threw the white flag like a penalty on the gridiron. Despite the guilt it was coupled with, for a brief time all I could think about was having a way out; an end to the pain, the frustration, the burden that I know my loved ones carry because of me.

As I wrestled and fought through these overwhelming thoughts that I didn’t know what to do with, I cried out for help. What came to my mind was the story of the man who couldn’t walk being lowered through the roof by his friends to get him in front of Jesus. At first I did not really understand how this related to me and the oppressive suicidal thoughts I was battling. I was not asking for a healing miracle, I was just tired of fighting and feeling like a burden to everyone around me. The more I thought about the story though, I realized for the first time that maybe this story is less about the man and more about his friends.

Maybe the man who couldn’t walk was tired of fighting too. Maybe he was tired of having to ask people to carry him just to get where he wanted to go. Maybe he was weary of asking for a miracle to which the answer was no. Regardless of where he was emotionally, he allowed his friends to walk right into his brokenness. He called out for help, and let them use their gifts to meet his needs. They literally cut apart someone’s house to get their friend the best kind of healing they possibly could. That is absolute passion on his friends’ part, and a great big dose of vulnerability on his own part.

This story I have heard over and over since childhood suddenly took on new meaning to me. I felt challenged to resist the urge to rush through my suffering, and to instead allow my hard path to crack me wide open and let vulnerability be the fertile ground for new beauty. By trying to control the timing of my own death, I would only rob those that love me the opportunity of meeting me in these hard moments and extending the love that has carried me again and again through these deep valleys. Pondering this new concept, I realized how much this already has happened, which further encouraged me for the days ahead.

Being vulnerable opened the door to kind friends showing up to pull the weight of my daughter’s grad party that I didn’t have the strength to make happen.

Being vulnerable allowed for the most sacred moments of love and prayer at my bedside in the ICU, even before I was aware.

Vulnerability has provided opportunities for precious times when my dear friend sits with me- no matter how haggard I look, or how many days since I’ve been able to wash my hair- and we are ushered into holy presence as she reads my favorite scriptures and prays over me.

These moments matter. Our lives, our stories, and our suffering all matter. When we step out from hiding behind our privacy or our embarrassment or our shame over feeling the big feelings we feel, we open our hearts and our lives to experience the richest, most meaningful moments this life has to offer.

When we are asked to walk a road that feels impossible to walk, it does not feel natural to open your heart up and share that pain with the people around you, but I’m telling you it might be one of the most healing things you can do for yourself. It also gives validation and purpose to the people waiting in the wings to use their gifts to help you. It can be a beautiful, painful story that changes hearts and forges friendships and gives so much glory to the author of our stories.

Jesus is well acquainted with suffering. He walked the hardest road so that we can find hope along our own hard journeys. Be brave enough to open your hands and hold your story out to those who are ready to walk alongside you. You will find strength you need to keep going, help you need to make it to the next step, and you will find kinship in the broken hearts who thought no one else could understand the road they are walking.

Hastening our suffering or skipping ahead to our final breath was never what God intended. But along each step of our good, hard journey, God will meet us with his beautiful grace. It is not a mistake; his power is strongest when we are weak. (2 Corinthians 12:10). Hold on friends. Choose hope.