the smell of wet-sweaty-jr-high-boy came in rough waves around me but my mind was fixed on the diagnosis. manageable but incurable. life-long.
24 hours had not been enough time to wrap my head around the changes coming to this dear friend of mine. this third of my heart. i wanted to comfort and love and care for her alone but i was called to this retreat. to comfort and love and care for the hundred students in front of me instead of the single broken heart next to me.
the band started an unfamiliar song. they told me i was hearing “how he loves.” but in that moment, that weekend, the song should have ended in question.
i was sure that he loved, but left wondering how he loved. was i to sing, to declare, that this was the way he loved? was i called to see this situation as evidences of his great affections? was this weight not grief but instead the weight of his mercy - bending and threatening to break me? to break her?
how he loves, they sang. how does he love? i wondered.
a dear friend often reminds me that cs lewis has said: “we’re not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful that best will turn out to be.” his best has turned out to be doctors offices and needles and shots. humbled hearts and purified dreams. his best has been to teach dependence on the giver of life. the giver of all good things.
oh how he loves.
the worship that started in question has become an ebeneezer. the familiar song has become a gentle reminder of the lengths he is willing to go to demonstrate his love. to remember his oceans of grace.
oh how he loves us.
