Friday, December 25, 2015

Unexpected Grace

There’s something about sunsets and sunrises that speaks to my heart. I feel moved beyond where I am. I’m reminded that there’s Something, Someone greater. There’s something about standing under the sky watching the glory of our Creator unfold. I think those are moments where the Creator of the universe uses creation to gently, profoundly proclaim his presence. I’m thankful for these moments because we need to be reminded of his presence. Sometimes it seems that he’s somehow not there.

Recently, my dad stepped out in hope. There was a chance that the surgeons could create an internal passageway for liquids to pass. Since he doesn’t have a stomach, this would’ve improved his quality of life. But it didn’t work. We were all a bit stunned when we heard the news. I think we all thought it would happen. Why wouldn’t it? But it didn’t. Where is our Father who created and loves us so much in this?

After they tried the surgery, my mom and I were with Dad in his room in the ICU. At some point, and I can’t remember when exactly, I looked out his window. The sun was setting, and it was stunning! Shades of pink, purple, and blue streaked across the sky and a bright glow of yellow appeared where the sun was fading away.

I stood there, taking in the beauty and peace. For a few minutes I was elsewhere and my heart and mind pondered the wonder of this moment. I just knew the Father was with us. It was an interesting mix of emotions seeing his handiwork outstretched before me while my dad was lying in a hospital bed behind me. It came to mind to take a picture, but I hesitated. Would it take away the sacredness of this moment or trivialize the emotions in the room?  I heard myself say, “I’m going to take a picture of it,” and my mom encouraged me. I held my Smart phone up to the glass and took it. Looking at the photo, I felt a strange and wonderful excitement come over me. What I didn’t see when I was taking the photo was a reflection of my dad in the hospital bed. 


This photo is a gift from the Father, no doubt. It has offered me time in prayer and reflection amidst this confusing time. As I’ve prayed with it, I’ve felt an invitation from the Father to seek for him in the photo, and in moment captured. In this searching, I am first drawn to avert my eyes from the room to the beauty of the sunset, to look beyond. To where there is wonder and awe and hope. In the sunset, I transcend the time and place of the hospital room and reflect on God who is powerful, loving, and trustworthy. If he is, and I believe he is, he’s here. He’s got this.

From the sunset, I reflect on the image of my dad among the colors of the transitioning night sky. I’m asked to accept two realities. One, the reality that is in front of me in the hospital room: my dad, the tubes, the sights and smells of the room that are part of him. Second, the reality that I sense in the sunset but is somehow still hidden. Creation has a way of speaking life and hope to us. In both situations, I feel small and helpless, yet hopeful. And, in both situations, I also see the fingerprints of God.

Even still, I find myself feeling tempted to think that God didn’t answer our prayers, but as I sit in this ‘dual reality’ and reflect, that doesn’t seem to be true. It’s that God is answering these prayers in a different way. From a different perspective, I realize that though it didn’t turn out the way we wanted, grace and peace still permeated the room, my dad, and really anybody who came in the room. The nurses and doctors all had a peace and a joy about them. Grace seemed to surround and emanate from my dad. It’s amazing what prayer can do! Dad’s smile and patience were contagious.

Finally, the purple and the pink of the sky bring me to the season of Advent, this time of year where we wait in prayer and prepare ourselves for the coming of the Christ Child. This year, the Father has offered my family a different way to prepare our hearts to understand the meaning of Advent on a deeper, more personal level. In thinking of Advent, I go to Mary, the Mother of God. From Mary, we can learn to abide, open, and accompany. Like Mary at the Annunciation, we are presented with the invitation to receive the Lord anew and wait on him to bring about what is in his plan. Like Mary at the foot of the Cross, we are invited to wait in patient difficulty with Dad.

Like Mary, we look up and ponder. In this place of the mystery of knowing but not quite understanding we learn how to wait on him, trust him, and let him grace our lives in unexpected ways.

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