Faithful Paradox

My husband developed a migraine on Sunday afternoon. Despite multiple rounds of medication, sleep, and doing his best to treat it, the pain would not subside. He struggled through the night, still battling extreme pain Monday morning. When I awoke and saw the state he was in, I stopped and prayed for him, asking with the authority given to us in the name of Jesus that his head would be healed. Within an hour, his head was completely better.

He texted me later that day and said, “I believe Jesus healed my head after you prayed for me.” My initial gut response? “Hmm, maybe. It was probably the combination of coffee and more drugs.” I was once again struck with the cynicism that is so deeply rooted in my heart.

As I was confronted with this cynicism and unbelief, I spent some time confessing to the Lord. This time of confession exposed once again that there is still an open wound from sorrow in my heart. It is still full of questions flowing from pain and loss. I struggle with the age old question of why does God choose to heal some and not others? Why would God heal something rather inconsequential, like a headache, yet choose to not heal something deeply consequential, like when my son battled cancer? I don’t understand. I realize I likely never will; at least not this side of eternity.

I struggle to understand why God allows what he does. I struggle to understand why he knows that the loss and hurt endured will change a person to their very core and leave them feeling fragmented for the remainder of their days, yet he still allows it. I struggle to understand how this could ever be restored or be good.

I asked my husband the other day, “I wonder if I will ever get over the disappointment that God did not heal Ezra?” His response? “Probably not.” I struggle to fathom a world where I will reach that place – where it will not still hurt that God said no, or at least “not in the way you had hoped.” We are three and a half years past loss and still these questions still feel like there is little resolution.

What I do know right now is that my heart still feels cynical about God’s willingness to heal. I still struggle to have faith to believe he is willing to extend that mercy. My doubt is not whether he is able; I believe he has authority over all things and is able to do whatever pleases him. But I still struggle to believe he will heal when asked.

I don’t know how this wound in my heart will mend. I cannot just believe more fully. I cannot will my heart toward belief. So I think I must simply do what I am currently doing; confess my cynicism and unbelief when I recognize them, pray as if I had a full, robust belief, and trust that God is gracious to forgive and strong enough to hold me even as I wrestle. This is, after all, the very essence of faith, is it not? It’s trusting God at his Word. It’s choosing to believe what he says is true, not because I understand, not because it feels true, but trusting even when I feel deeply confused and in the dark as to what he is doing. It’s knowing that my wrestling and struggle does not condemn me since “there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” (Roman 8:1). It’s remembering that “it is by grace [I] have been saved through faith. And this is not of [my] own doing, it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast” (Eph. 2:8-9).

I am reminded once again through my wrestling that my only boast is that God is strong enough to hold me, even as I wrestle deeply to trust him. And maybe that, after all, is a small bit of the good that I long to see. I can say with deep confidence that “his grace is sufficient for [me] for [his] power is made perfect in weakness. Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses so that the power of Christ may rest upon me” (2 Cor. 12:9). My boast today is that even after three and a half years, my faith still feels weak, cynical, and at times deeply difficult. Yet I still believe. That must be the power of Christ resting upon me and for that, I give him praise.