On Christmas Day, my Dad was wrapping up a fun and eventful morning at my brother’s house in Denver. Minutes before getting ready to head back to our house for continued festivities, my Dad felt a seizure coming on and slowly dropped to the ground. This was his first seizure since August 2020, when he was first diagnosed with Glioblastoma.

This seizure wasn’t like his first one, which was a Grand Mal seizure, during which he went unconscious. He was conscious for this one, but the problem was that this seizure didn’t want to stop. And while they got the major symptoms under control once he was admitted to the ER, it took nearly three days to get rid of the seizure activity in his brain and the residual electrical impulses running through the left side of his body, in particular. 

As he wore the EEG pads all over his head, and they pumped him full of various medications to calm things down, my sweet Dad had a major setback. 

We did CT scans and another MRI and neither showed any tumor growth, swelling, or bleeding. There wasn’t really any explanation for the seizure - at least not a cut and dry one. But, of course, having a brain tumor is always a good enough reason for a seizure. 

After spending a week in the hospital, my Dad came home to Joe and me for one night, only to be readmitted to the hospital again the next morning for several more days. Following the second hospital stay, where they adjusted some of his medications, he was admitted to a nearby rehabilitation hospital for nearly two weeks, in order to gain some strength and mobility and come home safely. He finally came home to us a week ago last Tuesday.

If you’ve followed our journey in recent months, my Dad had made huge strides in his recovery. He had gone from wheelchair to walker to cane, even walking on his own. And though he’d have weaker days, often due to chemo and radiation, it was definitely forward motion. He was even making plans to travel and see friends and family once the holidays passed. 

Facing this slow and arduous recovery process yet again was like being punched in the gut - for him and for those who love him.  He is getting stronger, just like he did last time. He has a great attitude, as always. But this setback has done more than postpone his independence and temporarily zap his strength. It has caused a sense of increased vulnerability that keeps us all a little on edge.

I don’t remember which C.S. Lewis book it was, perhaps “A Grief Observed,” but I remember C.S. Lewis grappling with God’s definition of goodness. He suggests that God’s definition of goodness must be quite different than our human one, because He doesn’t stop hard and hurtful things from happening, as we might. Sometimes they keep slamming into us, and we come to dread the next tragedy that might be allowed to pass through His hand. 

I confess, some days I feel the same way as Mr. Lewis. With this year of COVID, my Dad’s brain cancer diagnosis, and so many other tragedies in our nation, our world, and in the lives of those we love, I want to scream, “STOP!!!!! Please stop all this madness!!! Couldn’t we have a long stretch of uninterrupted goodness?” - as I interpret goodness, that is.

But then I realize so much of what feeds my fear is my assumption of how God’s goodness should play out and the lens through which I view His goodness at all.

We know God says His ways and thoughts are much higher than ours, and so it would make sense that we simply can’t comprehend with our finite minds why on earth He would allow so much pain and heartache (notice I didn’t say “cause” but “allow”). And so we draw our own conclusions, and they usually end up being judgmental of the very One who gave us life and breath and who redeemed our souls.

Or another approach is that we might temporarily ignore our wrestling and numb ourselves with distractions or addictions, so we don’t actually have to think about what all of this actually means. 

Neither response is a great option in the long run.

Instead of passing judgment on the heart of God or shutting down entirely, I am asking Jesus to help me come to more fully trust His heart toward me and those I love. I am asking Him to help me remember that He walks through the flames and through the floods with us. He doesn’t always pluck us out of them. But we are still safe.

I’m asking Him to help me view this life through a lens that looks a bit more like His.

I’m also asking God for mercy, and that’s OK too. He knows and sees our humanness, and perhaps He could steer the next hurricane offshore and into the depths of the uninhabited ocean. 

As Christ-Followers, when we consider that Jesus is (supposed to be) the theme of our story and His glory the goal, then our vision shifts yet again. And while it’s easy to wonder why God feels He needs more glory from us at all, that’s not the point. It’s actually most valuable for us to remember that we will find our deepest satisfaction in knowing Him better. And, as in any human relationship, we will develop the deepest, most abiding relationship with someone who walks faithfully and lovingly with us through the darkest of places. The “no matter what” people.

Here’s the beautiful truth…

Jesus stays. He listens. He comforts.

He is ever present - through it all.

He loves. He keeps loving.

He hides us. He keeps us. He holds us.

We are safe.

No matter what.

When we walk through hell with Him, we see what He’s made of. We see His truest of colors, His faithfulness, and the never-changing truth of His Word.

And if knowing Him and being known by Him is the ultimate and most satisfying goal, then perhaps there is a different lens through which to view our pain - pain which seems to be a catalyst for greater intimacy with Jesus? 

I’m not sure why it has to work this way. And I really don’t prefer it. But I do know that my truest peace comes not in the absence of trial or tragedy but in tucking myself under His wing and riding out the storm together. 

May you and I increasingly discover how to stay in this sweet spot.

Much Love,

SJA