I have been reading a book by John Ortberg entitled, Soul Keeping: Caring for the Most Important Part of You. It's a book that has been making me really think, so I've been reading it in small chunks instead of devouring it like I approach most books. This morning I read chapter 16, "Dark Night of the Soul." I don't feel as if I'm currently experiencing a dark night of the soul. My father's health had not been good, and I had been mentally preparing some time for his release from his failing body. Perhaps that is why I was caught off guard by what I was reading.
Ortberg was discussing in the chapter the idea of God's "slowness." He shared a quote by Frederick Faber, ". . . There is something greatly overawing in the extreme slowness of God. Let it overshadow our souls, but let it not disquiet them. We must wait for God, long, meekly, in the wind and wet, in the thunder and the lightning. In the cold and the dark. Wait, and He will come. He never comes to those who do not wait." And then he shared a story of a man he had once worked with. The man had been a vibrant, energetic worship leader who suffered a massive stroke and became unable to live the life of service he had previously known. Ortberg told how this man now works in the back of a grocery store, where he breaks down boxes and collects the imperfect produce that can't be sold so that it can be donated to feed the hungry. Ortberg quoted a letter from his friend, "It is good that I work there. I am like that fruit. I am imperfect. Inside I am the same person, the same sense of humor, the same thoughts. But my words betray me. What should take three minutes to say is an hour of frustration. People lose patience with me. Aphasia means aloneness. But God hears me. My world is small, and quiet, and slow and simple. No stage. No performance. More real. Good."
That's where the tears began. My dad didn't have the specific struggles that John Ortberg's friend had. My dad was dealing with common ailments of old age. He didn't remember things. He couldn't hear well. His body hurt all the time from cancer. He was physically unsteady and unstable, so going places was exhausting and a chore. His world became very small. And as I read those words, God reminded me that in the midst of the long journey of illness that my dad had endured, God was always with him. God never left him alone. God's mercy and grace was fresh and new every day.
Wonder and awe astonished me as I contemplated the truth that though my father's world had been growing increasingly smaller, more limiting and more frustrating, it was Filled with the Glory of God. My soul was overwhelmed; it was more than I could take in.
And so I cried. I cried with thanksgiving that God is so very good. I cried because I hadn't known to ask what it was like to so completely rely on only Jesus. I cried because I miss him. I cried because I can't tell him what he is teaching me even now.
I had wondered for some time why God was allowing my dad to live through the betrayal of his own body. I knew my dad wanted to go home, and I often asked God why my dad had to keep enduring. I was of the opinion God should either improve his status, or change his address. Perhaps there were lessons God was teaching my dad about waiting. I don't know. I do know that I have a very strong visual in my heart of "[waiting] for God, long, meekly, in the wind and wet, in the thunder and the lightning. In the cold and the dark. Wait, and He will come. He never comes to those who do not wait." And I know my dad was, above all, waiting on God.
Though I may cry, my soul is at rest, for God has come, and there is wonder.
