He grew up in the north on the banks of a cold, pristine Michigan lake, surrounded by tall old pines. I grew up in the country, on dirt roads and rolling acres of wheat grass. Two kids, worlds apart, living, loving, and learning about life in the beauty around us. Thirty years later, pulled by the pressures of adulthood and obligation, he goes inside four smog laden walls with the loud pumping and pounding of monster like machines banging away in his ear drums and his consciousness for 10-12 hours-day after day. Breathing fumes, listening to men who stand around and talk about the lives they have thrown away, year after year, just existing… waiting until they turn 65 so they can start living. It makes him drown a little each day, thinking he won’t make it out.

I can’t breathe. How can I rescue him Lord? How can I rescue the boy with the silken black hair that I fell in love with when I was sixteen? How can I rescue us from lives of meaningless churning? When we are young, we dream of overcoming the smallness of our world. We try so hard to run from who we are and where we came that we forget the Wonder. At sixteen, he kissed me during the slow skate at the Rollerama. Three dates later, we decided we never wanted to be away from each other. Two kids, dreaming of sharing our lives, a house, a couple of children and a nice car.

When we are old, we long to return home. Life is about this crazy circle… growing our wings, learning to fly and leaving the nest—only to return home years later—to the safe place…

“Dear Lord, you know my past, you know my present, and you know my future. Please guide me in my daily life choices, as my desire is to walk toward you. Let me be at peace with my mistakes. Thank you for picking me up and dusting me off when I have failed, felt defeated, discouraged or ashamed. Amen.“

When I was a child, there was a patch of pines on the property next to our farm. I used to walk barefoot through them, needles piled onto the forest bed, making the path soft for my feet. I often laid my head down in the middle of this small forest, breathing in the smell of the pines and looking up through the holes the branches made to the sky. When it rained, I put on my yellow rain coat, carried my yellow diary, and took shelter under the forest canopy, writing and dreaming. Miles away, there was a boy wearing a red flannel shirt, rambling his way through the forest. We didn’t know then that our lives would intersect and that one day we would walk through the pines together.

All these years later, hundreds of miles from our separate pasts, away from the comfort of our nesting places, having traveled the world, built and lived in big houses with big mortgages, raised two children into adulthood, we long to return to the safe places we once knew. We long to overcome the smallness of our world. Overcome the smallness of a world that says that men should spend forty years inside four walls to earn a living. The smallness of a world that drowns a man a little each day, making him lose sight of the beauty of his life, the dreams he dreamed as a child, the things that gave him joy.

When we are old, we long to return home. Full circle… growing our wings, learning to fly, we return to the safe place… the Creator of Wonder, the One who is Peace, who dusts us off when we have failed, and picks us up when we want to come home—landing us safely back in our nests—dirt roads, wheat grass and pines. 

She wakes up after eight hours curled into a tight ball…pain wrenching her body, consuming the God within her. Pulling open the weighted drapes that keep the winter cold from hitting her headboard at night in an old house, sunshine greets her with a smile. A little worn, a little weary, a little ravaged by an illness trying to suck the life out of her very limbs. She stands, smiling. New day, new hope. 

Each night, she closes her eyes, clenching blankets tightly, lulling herself to sleep as if she is holding onto the hem of His garment. Cuz if she can get through the night, He will greet her in the morning and morning may look entirely new. However, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes she has to swallow hard and hold back tears of discouragement when she awakens and everything still hurts.

There is a busy world around her, filled with people worried about small things that seem big, when in reality there are people like her who are fighting to live each day fully and smile while going through the motions. Illness has a way of shredding hope, shredding dreams, shredding plans, shredding futures. Her bedroom, a safe place from the world, the place she takes comfort when pain is too much to bear. Surrounded by pictures of places she dreams of one day going, flowers, things she loves—like the wooden jewelry box with a gold key that her mama bought her, years ago. Marriage vows in a red barn wood frame– etched by a folk artist, trinkets that her children created with small hands while growing through the years, a black and white of grandma and grandpa. These things bring comfort during the dark days of bed rest. A stack of bibles and devotionals with a reading lamp on her nightstand. 

Why is it that we pray for things, that we pray for success, affirmation from strangers, and we say that we are doing it to please God? What really pleases God is a contrite heart, a heart so in love with Him that we forget being known by thousands of people and kneel beside the bed of just one person who is struggling. That’s important ministry…one person at a time…those people clutching blankets as though they are the hems of His clothing, begging and praying for healing. 

Evening falls and it is dark in her room. I go in and light a small lamp. She’s curled up under furry blankets, the kind that bring comfort when everything else hurts. She has felt it coming on for days, and it gradually gets larger until it washes over her like a tidal wave—three or four days go by and she remembers not much but trying to survive it…the headaches, the blurry eyes and brain fog, the trembling in pain. She takes refuge in her bedroom—a place she has made uniquely her own because she spends more time there than most of us can imagine. 

For those of us with chronic illness, we need a holy place. Our bedrooms become just that…the place we meet God at our weakest. The places we reconcile, pray, ask, give thanks and cry tears of hopelessness onto our pillows. We have a special wisdom in that we find Glory in small moments. We see God’s goodness and recognize it quickly. We are eager to give thanks and know the fragility of life. We do what we can with what we have and still find joy. We know the wisdom of suffering and can share our compassion with others who are suffering, because we too, have suffered.

There is a God in Heaven who understands our suffering. He is our refuge and an ever-present help in trouble.  There is a God filled with mercy who sends seekers to our bedsides, those who on bended knee, usher up whispered prayers to the Host and He comes down to meet us, right where we are. Where hearts are filled with presence. Where we are one-on-one with those who are suffering, contrite hearts, muttering prayers of selflessness from the deepest places because we have forgotten about ourselves and the world around us, if only for a moment. We have connected with the Holy of Holies as our hearts and knees bend with compassion and humility.

 My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. 2Corinthians 12:9

He says His power is made perfect in weakness. Not only in physical weakness, but in all our weakness. The weakness of perfectionism, the weakness of approval seeking, the weakness of not even knowing our weakness, spiritual depravity, depression, abuse, pride, hatred and unforgiveness, bitterness, lust, addiction, the love of money.  My grace is sufficient. Each of us are fighting battles, but with each new day there is new hope…and the greatest news is that we can start again, sins washed clean. God accepts us new each day. As we pull ourselves out of bed, fighting battles, a little worn, a little weary, a little ravaged, He sees us…one person at a time, begging, praying and tugging on the hem of His garment.