She Dares to Hope
Kara Dedert, Guest Writer
TODAY’S TREASURE
So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day (2 Corinthians 4:16).
I woke up at 2 a.m. to Calvin’s calls through the monitor. long vocalizations rising and falling. Never sure if it’s a cry of distress or just the simple joy of making noise, I made my way down the steps to his room. The lights glowed softly around his bed, and he grinned at the sound of my voice. I turned him over onto his side, giving his hips and back a break from the last position I’d left him in.
Then as if I’d flipped a switch, he arched his back, closed his eyes, and his entire face changed. He’d been having these episodes for a week now, triggered at random times and tests offering no clues. Thinking maybe he was hurting, I turned him, crawled into his bed, and just held him. His entire body vibrated against mine, and my voice brought no relief. I held him, hating disease, hating neurological disorders, and that familiar feeling of being out of control. But used to it.
Just two days ago, I stood next to a friend. Together we watched as her son’s casket was lowered into the ground. Together we stood, just a small band of us, bracing against the wind and wrapped in blankets on a hilltop in front of a freshly dug grave. “I have to see him through,” she said, “I can’t leave until it’s done.”
She’d seen him through every operation, every hospital stay, and every long night. She’d talked him through procedures and far too many doctor visits, and long days of recovery. Now was no time to leave.
She’d cared for his soul and mind – praying and singing and talking and leading. She’d cared for his body in ways few mothers have, using her nursing skills and grit to manage needs that escalated as the syndrome progressed. She held his hand as he walked through valleys of pain and confusion and slept by his bed to give meds and quiet his anxiety. When I visited, she was always by his bed. Once she tried to move her hand, and he grabbed tight, even with eyes closed and not being able to talk. And we stood there together, the wind howling and the women silent. With each fresh layer of dirt that covered the casket, a sigh of grief from her, again and again. She is not new to grief, but this feels like a final weight.
Still, she stands strong with tears streaming. She stands even though she’d like to run, not away, but towards. She is used to running in and rescuing. But she stays, and she stands even though her stomach heaves.
Grief is not new to those with chronic illness. It has come with varying forces and rough introductions, not caring what our plans were or the chaos it left us. It’s knocked us off our feet as we’ve learned about the effects of the unpronounceable words on our kid’s diagnosis sheet.
We’ve sat long into the night, wondering how to step forward, wondering if there was another option. Surely? And then, with no other option, facing the next reality with fear (the I-think-I’m-going-to-throw-up sort and the keep-it-hidden-so-my-child-doesn’t-see kind).
But we’ve also known something else. That grief does not exist alone, at least not for those who follow Jesus. Sure, it often is the only thing we can feel. But around our circumstances, there is a frame of hope that surrounds our story.
I’m not talking about hope as a fantasy to dull the present or a vague sentiment to placate ravaged hearts – but a reality that Jesus purchased with his blood, a reality that claims our story, no matter how much it feels gone awry.
It’s a hope that reminds us no matter how bad this gets, it’s not the end of the story. Because Jesus has purchased our stories, he’s the author and the finisher, and these are the chapters in between.
So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day (2 Corinthians 4:16).
I saw the reality of this in my friend. The hope instilled in her heart even as grief crushed her. Not a vague hope that somehow someway, this would be alright. That possibility had left. But a sure and steady hope anchored in the person and work of Jesus Christ. A steadfast hope that even as her son left her arms, Jesus carried him.
For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison (2 Corinthians 4:17).
It feels like a nice thing to say on a Sunday morning in a context that feels safe and troubles seem far. But you know its power when you cling to it as you stand beside a hospital bed or a freshly dug grave.
We look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen (2 Corinthians 4:18).
Sometimes it feels like all we have left — that scared leap from safety and desperately transferring our hope to Him instead of the outcome we were hoping for. But our desperate leap is often the start of something new: a steadfast trust in Christ and a powerful hope.
The clock now read 2:30 a.m. Calvin sneezed, and suddenly all the twitching and vibrating stopped; some imaginary off switch flipped. I slowly eased myself out of his bed, not wanting to set off the neuro symptoms again, and crept back up to my bed.
PRAYER
Oh, Father, we are used to grief. But we have met hope. Both are weathered and worn, and just one will have the last word in our story. How comforting to know the One that has the last word is Hope.
Originally posted at www.karadedert.com, Apr 23, 2020
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Kara Dedert is the creator of Root and Grow, a midwest mom to five and wife to Darryl. She writes regularly on faith, special needs, parenting and home. You can visit her Website, and her writing have been featured at Key Ministry, Live Better With Disability, Break the Parenting Mold, the Bible Study Magazine and Fox 17.
For more from Daily Treasure please visit MARKINC.ORG.
Originally published Tuesday, 15 November 2022.
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