Shadows of Hope

It started off as a very pleasant evening. I was sitting, waiting for a handful of friends who were going to meet me for dinner at a nice Indian restaurant on this tropical island that we were visiting for the long weekend. The food was great, the conversation was decent and the people were all excellent company (it isn’t every day that a lone guy can hang out with five girls for three days straight and not be driven completely mad). We were just finishing up the main course and discussion was rumbling about finding a nice little corner somewhere to grab a bit of something sweet for dessert. Then something that I could never have expected happened. One of the girls piped up—completely out of the blue, and not fitting with the present conversation topic at all—and said, “Just to make the record clear, Bill’s father has died. He’s planning on staying for the funeral and hanging out with his mom for a bit, but his e-mail said that he’ll probably be back in a few weeks.”

I felt as if I had been just sideswiped by a tractor-trailer. I know that not many of you probably have fallen 3.5 storeys, like I have, but the feeling of the absurdity of what had just happened was very much the same. When I fell in 2002, the thing that struck me the most (aside from the 8” steel pipe that I landed on) wasn’t the shooting pain on my left side which left me sitting up, gasping in agony. It was the incredulity that I had actually just fallen about 30 feet. The crazy thing about that, though, was that this disbelief of falling set in the moment after my hands lost their grip; it did not really pass until we started to drive off to the hospital.

The announcement made that very night—this past Monday—felt very much the same. Now, although I wasn’t tumbling in a free-fall towards a large metallic tube this time, I just as much felt the dread of being out of control as I headed towards a destination that I did not want to meet.

Bill isn’t his real name, and the reason that this news struck me so much, perhaps, is that Bill’s brother is my best friend. Bill’s family is as dear to me as my own.

* * * * *

It was torture waiting for the cheque to arrive. Our server was being as charming a chap as anyone could ever be, showing all of us several card tricks. I know that if it had been any other night, with any other bit of news, I probably would have eaten up his sleight of hand, but at that moment, I was so removed from what was happening: I just wanted to escape. The cheque came; I paid my fare and quickly excused myself from the company of my counterparts. I didn’t make it back to my hotel hut before the tears overcame my willpower to contain them. Through the liquid blur, I did finally manage to make it to my room, where I crumpled beside my bed and wept. I did not want consolation; I did not want company; I did not want anything, so I sat there—a big mess—surprising even myself at the strength of my grief. My shirt quickly became drenched with tears and sweat (I never knew until then that grief could require such exertion); my throat was worn raw and my body exhausted after 90 minutes of heaviness. Then a peace welled up within me.


Bill’s father had cancer. He was diagnosed a week before I flew halfway around the world to teach & do missionary work. It had been something like 11 weeks since his initial diagnosis, where the medical team thought that he had a high chance for successful treatment. Not a day had gone by—not even 6 hours typically passed—that I did not beseech the Lord to move in such a way as to make His glory known through this difficulty. I prayed and prayed and prayed, and I actually came to the point that I really, really believed (without even the slightest doubt) that God would heal Bill’s father and restore his health. My grief wasn’t directed so much at the death of Bill’s dad: we would all see him again—especially since Bill’s father decided to draw himself back towards the Lord during these final weeks. My grief was mainly focussed upon the huge loss that my friends were dealing with, those that Bill’s dad left behind. It was huge; it was gross; it was sudden. Not only this, but I felt even a bit betrayed by God. I felt lied to. The Bible tells us that if we ask for anything in the name of Jesus—and that if we pray and do not give up—then whatever we ask for in His name, the Father will give us, because He likes to give good gifts to His children. All of my prayers, all of my intercession added up to a big pile of horse poop, because it seemed as though God didn’t care about what I asked for. Then I remembered. I remembered that although I asked for Him to heal Bill’s father, I had this one string attached. I prayed that God would heal Bill’s dad, but only in a way that His glory would be made fully known.

Now, I think about the story of Jesus & Lazarus in John 11. I have a new, fresh perspective of how Mary & Martha were feeling. They knew that Jesus had the power to heal their brother, but Jesus purposefully did nothing. He let Lazarus die, and when Jesus came to the funeral, Mary & Martha were grieved, confused and broken-hearted. Part of me thinks that they thought Jesus let them down. I know that the power of God can raise people from the dead, and so did Mary & Martha, yet they considered only that the glory of God would be made known “in the resurrection at the last day.” I see myself considering the same. I find myself asking the same question that the bystanders were asking in John 11:37, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” Doesn’t Jesus have the power to stop this sickness and death? Why didn’t He?

Perhaps, it is because God has a bigger plan in the works than we could ever understand. Even now, I still pray that God would let His glory be known through this sickness and death—who knows? God rose Lazarus; perhaps He will do the same for Bill’s dad. That would be amazing. I know that He has the power to do so; I just no longer have the confidence to say that he will do so. I would love to see it. I really would. Yet even if He doesn’t, I can hold on to the truth knowing that God works all things for the good of those who love Him.