Faithful Paradox

Prayer has been hard for me since losing Ezra. I am not sure if I have ever been an excellent pray-er. In times past I have prayed often and fervently, and yet I also find myself in a place where I am questioning the sincerity of my prayers in days past. It’s interesting when one faces such an all encompassing and devastating loss like losing a child, it brings to light a lot of doubts and questions that may have always been lingering right below the surface, and yet it was easy to ignore them, explain them away, shove them down or simply just deny they existed.

When we lost Ezra, I felt betrayed by God. I know in my head that God is unable to betray his children. His word is clear that he will never leave or forsake his beloved, even when we are unfaithful (Hebrews 13:5). To feel something like betrayal, even if I know logically it is untrue, is painful.I recognize that God did not betray me, but rather, it is I who had wrong expectations of what I thought God would do. It is I who had a wrong understanding of what God is like. It is I who is in the wrong, not God. Yet despite the fact that I recognize this, my feelings of betrayal are no less present or real.

With these feelings of betrayal comes a deep cynicism that has taken up residence in my heart. When I pray, there is a voice that whispers to me, “What’s the point, Kirsten? God is going to do what he’s going to do. You wasted thousands of prayers and hopes in God’s promises on Ezra and see how that turned out? Why bother asking?”

I can unpack each of these lies and see them for what they are; lies from the enemy. But the truth is, I still feel these things deeply. So deeply, in fact, that prayer has been a significant struggle for me over the last 2 years.

I prayed with every bit of faith and hope I had, believing that God would heal my son here on earth. When Ezra went to heaven and we lost life with him here, there is a piece of my heart that simply shut down; stopped hoping. Prayer requires hope and hope has been hard for me. Prayer has been my feeble attempt to resuscitate this hope-depressed part of my heart. Thus far, the CPR of prayer feels slow and ineffective in breathing life back into this part of belief. I struggle to believe that prayer makes a difference, despite God’s word promising that the, “prayers of the righteous are powerful and effective” (James 5:16). I struggle to believe that asking God will change circumstances.

As I wrestle, I find myself in passages like Mark 10:46-52. There is a blind beggar named Bartimaeus sitting on the side of the road. His need is clear; he is blind, he is begging for his daily needs. He calls to Jesus over and over, despite people shushing him and telling him to quiet down. Jesus hears his calls and invites him to his side. What happens next is interesting because Jesus asks Bartimaeus, “What do you want me to do for you?”

The sarcastic side of me wants to answer, “What do you think, Jesus?” The needs of Bartimaeus were clear; he had no sight and therefore no way to support himself. He had no means on which to live, which required daily begging on the road side. It was clear what he needed to any passerby. Yet Jesus still asks, “What do you want me to do for you?”

As I think about my cynicism and struggle for hope, this passage helps breathe a little life into the deaded spaces of my heart. It was clear that Jesus knew what Bartimaeus needed and wanted, yet Jesus still asked him to tell him. God is a respecter of people. He desires for us to ask. He desires for us to come to him. His word says the he knows what we need before we ask (Matthew 6:8), and yet somehow, there is intimacy in asking.

I find myself wondering what if Bartimaeus didn’t ask? What if Jesus invited him to ask and he didn’t share his true need; his true desire? What if his ask was not with a sincere heart? Would Jesus have answered that request? I don’t know.

I’m not sure that this really brings any clarity to my struggle of wrestling with prayer, but it does remind me that, “asking is the rule of the Kingdom” (Charles Spurgeon). Could it be that the clarity I seek is actually a letting go of hopes and expectations? It’s not as much a battle against cynicism, but rather, a battle of surrender; “not my will but yours be done” (Luke 22:42). Not my way, but yours, Lord.

Asking requires risk because it requires a willingness to be let down; to be told no. Bartimaeus could have asked Jesus for his sight and Jesus could have said, “No, not right now.” And he would have had every right to do that. Spurgeon goes on to say, “If you may have everything by asking in His Name, and nothing without asking, I beg you to see how absolutely vital prayer is.”

Had Bartimaeus not asked, Jesus would likely have not healed him (at least not on earth). By asking, he risked being let down, but he also risked being healed.

I risked in asking God to heal Ezra. His answer was, “No, not right now. Not in the way you want.” This was painful for me. It still is. I am reminded, however, that God’s promises are not always for our bodies, but rather, they are always for our souls. I know God healed Ezra. His word promises that because Ezra knew Jesus, there is glorious, eternal life for him where he will be whole and healed.

I think what the cynicism of my heart reveals is that I wanted my way and when God said yes, I will heal your son, just not in the way you want or hope, rather than trusting that God’s plan is right and best, I have gotten caught in my own desires. I risked to hope and now I am working on rebuilding the faith that got knocked down when God answered differently than I had hoped. I know the issue is me. I know God did not betray, despite my deepest feelings. I know he actually answered my prayers fully by taking Ezra to himself and healing him in a way that I simply cannot see right now. I know these things, even though my feelings want to tell me otherwise. I risked in asking. God’s answer was differently timed than I had hoped, and yet God is faithful. Ezra is healed. I just cannot yet see it.