The View from Here

I sometimes sit cross-legged at the end of the hospital bed. The view from here is all medical—filled to the brim with those pesky machines and probes that keep me from taking Little Man into my arms. He is nearly too big for that, but I would do it anyway if not for the wires and the difficulty of finding a position that relieves the labored and noisy breathing. I feel like I am solving a puzzle as I place all of the pillows just so, working to keep the alarms at bay. Finally, I hear the familiar little sigh that lets me know he’s at ease. To pick him up now would sacrifice AJ’s comfort for mine, so I settle for the end of the bed.

This view. How many times have I faced it? I do remember the first time, and it seems like a lifetime ago that I was sitting at the end of Olivia’s hospital bed. PICU was new to me at the time—the smell of antiseptic, harsh fluorescent lights, and thin curtains that do nothing to muffle the sounds of sickness all around. Back then, it was the unknown that had my stomach furled in knots. Now, me and my strong stomach have been around this block too many times. There is more than one kind of hard, I guess.

Not three months ago, AJ and I were sitting on a beach in the Caribbean, watching Robert and the girls play in emerald waters, breathing in salt air and listening to the crash of rhythmic waves against the shore. How I wish that I could snap my fingers and trade this view for that one. Any kind of escape feels attractive, and so I settle once more and choose a Hallmark movie. It’s set on a horse ranch in Montana—a far cry from the Caribbean, but the storyline is safe and uncomplicated. It lets me shelf my thoughts, ignore the dull ache in my soul, and bolster the levy that holds back my tears.

We humans like our escape routes quick and easy, up and out. But I’ve found that the “way of escape” God promises in 1 Corinthians 10:13 is often the farthest thing from that. This way of escape draws us—not immediately up and out—but first down to our knees and deeper into reliance on God. It leads us to be honest with ourselves so that we can honestly get to know God, learning by experience that He is faithful.

Always, there is a way of escape that leads straight to Jesus. I see that, and yet, I don’t always choose it. Because to turn, full-faith, toward Christ would require me to turn away from self. It’s the old, familiar tug-of-war:

Why me? 

No time of testing has come to you that is not common to human experience. I am faithful.–I Corinthians 10:13 (AMP/TPT)

What’s the point of all of this pain?

Your troubles are momentary and light. They are preparation for an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.–II Corinthians 4:17 (NIV/NLT)

This is not the story I wanted to write.

Fix your eyes on Me. I am the author and perfecter of your faith.–Hebrews 12:2 (BSB)

I can find no lasting peace until I forsake the escape route of my own making and take the one that He offers. In that moment, I find that Jesus is more than just the engineer of my way out, He is:

• the Waymarker (He points to the Way.)
• the Way Maker. (He’s made the Way.)
• the Way itself. (He alone is the Way.)

All of this is true, and more. Christ is the only worthy destination.

Jesus sacrificed all comfort to forge the path, to make a way for us to come to Him. It’s a narrow and difficult road, learning to trust God more than ourselves (Matt. 7:14). Still, it is grace-filled. And, it is the only way to truth and life, because Jesus is The Way, The Truth, and The Life (John  14:6). 

Yes, the view from here is different. And the question becomes this: Will the story of my life be one of escape from something or of escape to Someone? 

Father, 

When my struggle feels anything but light and momentary, and I think I’d rather be anywhere but here and anyone but me—remind me that You are the Author and I am not. Teach me to trust that You are writing a story where the last line is always good. A story so powerfully redemptive that even the painful parts become reasons to praise You. I am grateful that I am not alone. All who follow You carry crosses, yet we are privileged to walk a path forged by Jesus, the pioneer of our salvation. Thank you that Jesus is perfecting my faith and that the glory that is ahead far outweighs any trouble I am experiencing now. Cause me to be grateful for all of the times that You prevent hardship from entering my life. Make me thankful for times of rest and reprieve–even for Caribbean beaches and Hallmark movies. May I never seek them more than I seek You. When the way is difficult, give me grace to escape into Jesus so that I will learn to trust You more deeply.

In Jesus’ Name, 

Amen

*I recently finished reading Ann Voskamp’s WayMaker: Finding the Way to the Life You’ve Always Dreamed 0f. She writes beautifully about some of the ideas that surface in this blog post, and her words about God making “the last line” good found their way into my heart and my prayers.