Fear And The Goodness Of Godনমুনা

You know those stories people tell where somebody goes "weak in the knees” or the messenger suggests “you might want to take this sitting down”? Those always seemed like figures of speech to me. Who really goes all noodle-legged because of bad news, after all? 

But on the evening of August 20, 2012, when my husband carried home the news that our ten-year old son, Jonah, was diagnosed with leukemia, I crumpled onto the stairway and sobbed.

All through that evening and many days that followed, I learned what it was to go weak in the knees. Each time a doctor would bring new information, I took it sitting down. Every time the phone rang, my chest felt squeezed by a vise grip.

My child may die. My precious firstborn son may be taken from us. Everywhere I went, I felt an unbearable weight pressing down on my shoulders—one I could not carry. We were given hefty stacks of books and brochures I couldn't open. I couldn't allow my eyes to rest on phrases like “mortality rate” and “likelihood of relapse.” Words too heavy to lift from the page.

My child may die. It continues to be a weight I cannot carry. But I have learned it is also a weight that I need not carry. For, it’s not mine to carry at all. Psalms and hymns that I had sung for years and committed to memory were now surfacing in my head and heart—proving to be priceless and indispensable. Those pictures of God as a refuge, as a fortress, as a rock, as a tower, as a physician, as a friend, now meant something far more concrete. Here was comfort beyond imagining—peace beyond understanding.

My husband Jayson and I regularly spent days separated from each other. One would stay with Jonah at the hospital, while the other managed the household. We had help with bills and housework, but we did not have each other to lean on for comfort. During those lonely days, the sturdy old truths stacked on the shelves of my memory became sweeter company than I’d ever imagined.

It was as if I had stuffed a roll of hundred dollar bills into my pockets and forgotten about them. And when hard times fell, I put a hand into my pocket and discovered I had the money I needed, and it had appreciated in value.

As I shuffled with Jonah through the halls of the hospital, trying to look beyond the darkness cast by my own fears, I prayed desperately for help. The more I prayed, the more I found the verses I’d committed to memory during childhood began to catch fire and shine through this valley of shadow.

Words that seemed to be so much gravel tossed into my head and tumbled around over the years. Yet here they were again, pouring back out all precious and polished smooth—not gravel but rubies.