Gut-wrenching Pain, and What We “Just Know”

A few weeks ago, in the middle of this crazy cancer scare, my husband and I went on a date. It was the one where, after Mexican, we had to stop by Walgreens for eyedrops because we were so raw from crying. My heart felt doubled over inside.

But in the restaurant, over bottomless chips and salsa, my husband gently pointed out something in the questions I was asking. He does some conflict coaching and mediation on the side, and explained that our conversation reminded him of listening to two parties in an argument. Often, he can see the perspective of both sides. “But sometimes they would see things differently if they had that graciousness that just greases the wheels of a healthy relationship.” (This is my paraphrase. My brain in that time was a big pot of mashed potatoes.)

He looked at me. “I think you’re lacking some of that after things you’ve walked though with God. It’s like you think he’s against you.”

I do remember looking out the double doors across from us, watching the snow fall on the mountains through more tears in my eyes.

I quietly recalled to him some of the circumstances that didn’t call God’s love into question, per se, but made me just wonder if I understood it at all. He felt mysterious, the God of the cloud. Since I’d left Africa–and a number of significant “no’s” to prayer since then–I was still scrabbling to reshape my understanding of him. Not to mention my understanding of myself.

“I don’t think you can look at your circumstances as the indicator of whether or not God loves you,” he shook his head.

My husband is relentlessly logical, so I was curious. “Then how do you determine that?”

I was a little disappointed initially with his answer: “I just know,” he smiled crookedly.

What we Just Know

This didn’t mean a lot to me until a few nights later, when I watched a dad on TV speaking to his wife’s pregnant belly like my husband used to do.

Instantly, I was transported to the delivery room, our babies each wailing as if they’d—well. Been yanked from floating in painless perfection for nine months.

But with each of our four children, my husband walked over to where they were being weighed and washed and swaddled. My husband said our child’s name. And with every single one of our four kids, they stopped crying.

It was the same voice that had hovered over them for months, had prayed over them and told them jokes.

I just know.

The Prepared Place

As I type, I’m reminded of when in Uganda, I taught refugees the story of Creation from the Old Testament. It was my first class with them, so I brought in bags of popcorn with me, which delighted them and was no doubt completely unorthodox in light of typical African teaching methods. My Sudanese students would scoop up popcorn in those long, elegant hands that dwarfed mine, and I was rewarded with these great half-moon smiles that lit up their faces.

But there was a point, despite my obvious efforts to butter them up (see what I did there?). I explained what we could see just through Creation about God. Romans 1 mentions we can see his eternal power, and the fact that there is a God. But just recently, I was surprised by a little phrase in Acts 14:17: [God] did not leave himself without witness, for he did good by giving you rains from heaven and fruitful seasons, satisfying your hearts with food and gladness.

When God made people, they walked into a world already prepared for them: bursting with food and beauty and happiness. It’s a little like our squalling kids, right? They arrive naked and hungry and pretty angry, but we’re crying with delight over them, prepared with blankets and outfits from Grandma and kitted-out nurseries and stacks of diapers for the stinkiest part of them.

And even on days when my now-teenager can’t clearly see the love crowding around him, I long for the day he’ll look back and acknolwedge, I just knew.

Not Just a Bouquet of Flowers

I’ve been guilty of thinking something akin to, Yes, I know Jesus died on the cross, and what a demonstration of love that was. But what about now? Today? For me? As if this were a passing token. As if it were a nice thing someone did once–like flowers on a date–rather than the pinnacle of suffering and injustice, the greatest display of love in the history of the universe. For me. (If you’ve been there, you might appreciate this post on whether God loves us as individuals.)

I don’t know what dark waters you wade through right now. But as you look around you, as gratitude bubbles to the surface–may you somehow just know that you are infinitely loved.

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