A glimpse at the Father’s heart

Oh the emotional roller coaster the past few days has been.

Really, we are overcome with gratitude. Surgery went well, Bella won hearts and sailed through her hospital stay like a champ…although she was quite ready to get a move on by the end of it…and we made it safely home. We were blessed by the skill and care and compassion of nurses and doctors. We watched astounded as Bella marched through those first hours of her new reality with the can do attitude that we’ve grown to love in her.

And then we came home. And it was hard. As soon as we walked in the door, Bella was squirming in my arms to get down. She tried to crawl, but couldn’t quite get the casts in a position to make that possible. She wanted to see her books, but couldn’t pick them up and get them opened. She wanted to grab a ball to throw, but after multiple attempts to get it wedged between casts, she melted down in frustrated tears. The evening consisted of her seeing something, making it clear she wanted it, and then getting alternately angry and sad and frustrated. We tried to show her how she could hit a ball with the cast, or kick it with her leg. But our independent little warrior wanted to do things herself. Her way. And she just didn’t seem to understand why that wasn’t possible. Pretty soon I melted into a puddle of tears watching her.

By the end of the evening we were all exhausted from the hospital and vitals checks and medicine administration and the constant rhythm of interrupted sleep that is par for the course. And so as I crawled into bed last night, discouraged (probably more than I ought to have been – hello sleep deprivation), and frankly dreading what the next three weeks would hold, I started to pray. Give me eyes to see you in this. Help me see your heart.

And suddenly passages started flooding my mind. Oh what a gift the word is, sown over the years into our minds and hearts. I thought of Matthew 7, where Jesus says the Father’s heart is reflected in each parent’s heart – which of you would give a stone to your child when he asks for bread? If you know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more so your heavenly Father!

And so I thought of my mama’s heart in this moment. I looked for those shadows of the Father’s heart. I looked at my grieving over the frustrations of Bella’s present reality. How even though I know this is but a very brief chapter in her story, I still weep with her the pain and the challenge of the moment.

And right there, I suddenly felt that slight shift, that slight change in awareness, that…I wonder if this is the Father as well?

I think sometimes I get so caught up in the vastness and holiness and greatness of the God who is outside of time, that I think He looks at our present struggles in a bit of a detached way. Not from a lack of love and compassion, but from the ability to see how it all ends, how all of these strands of pain get woven into a beautiful symphony. And so He must just be waiting for us to cheer up and see the big picture and wait and hope for the redemption.

But then I see my mother’s heart. And I see my daughter’s finite understanding of reality. And I don’t expect her to understand the brevity of this pain. Instead, I mourn with her this present moment. I sit with her in the pain, and I cheer for her in the slightest glimpse of her accepting and overcoming what is presently being laid before her…I wonder if this is the Father as well?

And then I think of the shortest verse in the Bible. Jesus wept. Outside the tomb of Lazarus. Full well knowing he was about to call this man back to life. That songs of mourning were to be turned to rejoicing. But Jesus doesn’t call out to hush the mourner’s cry. He fully enters into the moment and grieves with those weeping by the tomb. Our God, fully outside of time, come down to fully enter into time.

I have known and I know that God is a God of compassion. I have known and I know that God is fully present. But I am thankful for these little glimpses, these small foreshadows into the heart of the Father. I’m thankful for the ways in which it allows me to hold the tension of the moment, the tension of the already not yet. For the ways in which it allows me to embrace the emotion of the moment, even yet while knowing hope waits on the horizon.

And so we march on. Alternately grieving with our sweet girl, and rejoicing over the small victories. Head over to Instagram (click on any of the pictures on the right) to see one such victory from tonight. We’ve ticked off one day, and have twenty to go. And so we’ll continue to seek and watch for glimpses of our Father, all the while praising Him for the spirit and tenacity He’s placed in our girl.