A pang of grief and weakness swell over my puffy red eyes. My dry hands fold in with tiredness from being held open towards God. My throat, radiating the desire of thirst, begs to rest. My voice is unintelligible to human ears; its tone laced with frustration, confusion, and exhaustion. For the first time since much time has passed, I've allowed myself to pray for my brother's healing. To be in a stage of waiting and wondering can be a ripe moment of torture and of bliss. I find myself relating to David as he calls out in Psalm 69:1-3,
"Save me, O God! For the waters have come up to my neck. I sink in deep mire, where there is no foothold; I have come into deep waters, and the flood sweeps over me. I am weary with my crying out; my throat is parched. My eyes grow dim with waiting for my God."
A couple of months ago, I had this experience of prayer in the living room of my house. My phone was silenced in another room, I was alone, and outside the rain poured softly. A youtube video was sent to me describing the healing of a young boy with a rare illness. My heart felt vulnerable and before I knew it I was calling out to God through waves of tears. At first, I praised God for the sweet moments my brother and I have shared in learning about the solar system and completing the summer reading challenge. With what felt like the same breath, I questioned God on his decision making. I doubted God...his existence, his love for me, his ability to provide, etc. I sang to God, in shameful relinquishment, reminding myself of the times I know he has unceasingly provided for me and loved me.
Honestly and shyly, I will tell you that I had stopped praying for my brother. Still, I was one of his biggest activists. Still, I sought to see him grow and played my role in that growth in whatever way I could. Still, my heart was warmed with love for him. Yet, that warmth ran cold when it came to discussing my hurts with God. People have both blindly promised Ryan's healing to me and discussed impolitely my need to consider that it may never happen at all. Both perspectives have been discouraging to me at times. I felt guilty if I wasn't confident of his healing and I felt guilty if I was too confident of it. Being uncomfortable at each extreme, I had drifted into the decision to stop praying for healing all together. There was never a definitive moment when I declared this change of heart. Rather, it was a slow and very subtle change in direction; this change went unnoticed until I was completely broken down in my house, alone, on a rainy November afternoon.
Have you ever seen an infant try to speak? Their concentrated eyes are compelling, their breathing is slowed and controlled, their eyebrows tighten, and their tiny minds race to discover how to turn thoughts to words. It is one of the greatest challenges they've experienced in their short lifetimes. It is a skill unmastered. The reward; however, is beautiful. With all the strength within them they speak out, "dada" or "mama." Or, "banker"...I'm convinced that was my brother's first word. Now, have you ever seen a parent reacting to their babies first words? They are completely undignified in their excitement. Thrilled and proud beyond measure of their baby girl or baby boy. Parents are elated with not only that first word but the promise of what that word means. The promise of deeper and deeper communication that lies ahead, the promise of growth in their sweet loved one, the promise of relationship.
I began to pray again that afternoon. As my mouth began to speak the thoughts I had held back for many years, my heart simultaneously rioted to keep these thoughts private. It was absolutely the most difficult conversation I have had with God. Like an infant learning to speak, I felt so concentrated and stunned by my new challenge. To start that conversation with God felt so painful; however, that's not how it ended. By the time I finished praying, my cheeks were red and my eyes stung but I felt undone and that was beautiful to me. I finally felt freed from the burden of hiding my pain from God. I like to imagine that God looked at me in that painful moment of a new beginning like a parent looks at their infant after speaking their first word. That conversation I had with God on a November afternoon, created treasured promises. A promise of deeper communication, growth, and relationship.
In Psalm 69, David cried out in anguish. He felt like he was drowning. He painfully shared his thoughts with God and he, too, became beautifully undone. He calls out, "The Lord hears the needy and does not despise his captive people. Let heaven and earth praise him.."
