by jphilo | Jan 16, 2012 | Family
Yesterday afternoon, Hiram went for a run.
The event hardly seems worth mentioning when compared to news of the cruise ship that capsized near Italy, the secretary general of the UN chastising the king of Syria, the race for the Republican presidential nomination, or outgoing governor Haley Barbour pardoning more than 200 convicted felons during his last hour in office.
But Hiram’s run is worth mentioning.
Because this is January in Iowa, a month written off by most joggers as too icy and cold for running outdoors. But this winter, the roads are still ice free and the temperatures much warmer than usual.
But excluding the weather, Hiram’s run is still worth mentioning.
Because it is a grace beyond what many men my husband’s age have been granted. We are surrounded by evidence of this reality. Hiram cares for patients who can’t walk because of serious heart issues. The memory of my wheelchair bound, fifty-five-year-old father in the nursing home never leaves us. We are praying for friends our age and younger who’ve recently had knee surgeries and hip replacements.
But Hiram’s run is worth mentioning for another reason.
In the past year and a half, four friends have lost their husbands. One to cancer. One to suicide. One to the effects of Agent Orange exposure in Viet Nam. One to a brain aneurysm. Two of them were younger than Hiram. Two were older, but not by much.
But Hiram was alive yesterday and went for a run.
His run is worthy of more than a mere mention. It is worthy of thanksgiving, even when my alive-and-well husband who went for a run yesterday forgets to take out the garbage. It is worthy of gratitude, especially when his sweaty running clothes in the bedroom hamper make the room stink. It is an event for which I am usually not grateful enough.
Except for today, when I thank God for my husband who went for a run yesterday.
by jphilo | Jan 2, 2012 | Church Newsletter Columns
In my book, this past month did not qualify as a Hallmark perfect Christmas. Too many friends experienced too many tragedies too close to the holidays. One friend lost her husband to a brain aneurysm. He was only two years younger than my husband. Two of her sons were preparing for college finals and the third was adjusting to a new school. Another friend faced the first anniversary of her husband’s death on Christmas Eve. Someone else received a grim prognosis concerning a disease she’s battled for years. A nine-year-old boy with the same esophageal anomaly as our son developed complications. His mom said her active, food-driven boy may soon require a feeding tube.
Tears flow when I think of the the loneliness and heartbreak of two widows, three young men without their dad to guide them to adulthood, and a woman destined to leave her family far too soon. When I think of the nine-year-old boy who may need a feeding tube for the rest of his life, I can imagine what our son’s life would have been like in similar circumstances. Then my tears give way to sobs and a profound, deep, unending grief.
In those sorrowing moments, I don’t like God very much.
I question His timing. Did you have to do it now, God?
I question His decisions. Did it have to happen to these people I love so much?
I question His compassion. Do you know how they feel?
Then I think of Mary in this year’s Christmas program. She’s waiting in the wings, holding her baby close. I close my eyes and picture God looking down on His baby, looking ahead through His Son’s life on earth to His death on the cross. I see the Father’s tears flowing into the bottle to join the tears of His Son, mixing with the tears of this past December’s new widows and orphans, of a little boy and his mother weeping while she pours bolus into a feeding tube. I see God’s tears mingled with theirs, with mine, and with yours.
I may never understand why God allowed such suffering into the lives of these people when He did. But I do know this. God understands how they feel. He has experienced their pain. And when his children cry out in the darkness, they never cry alone. God weeps, too, blessing them and us with His tears.
This past Christmas wasn’t Hallmark perfect. But, like the first Christmas, it was bathed in the Father’s tears. Not even a Hallmark perfect holiday can be better than that.
