I’ve experienced one miracle in my life. Maybe. Sometimes, I even think probably. Of course, it’s possible that I’ve witnessed many others but missed them because of my own doubt or blindness. But there’s one I’m pretty sure about. And ironically, this miracle involved the hands of a deceased mentally disabled child.
Our daughter, Megan, was a tactile child. Her vision was impaired; and there is evidence that her taste buds were off. But she loved to touch. And that touching was done with hands that were lightning fast.
I still wince as I remember the time one of our elder’s wives came up to us in the foyer where I was holding Megan. She said, “She is just the most precious girl in the world.” I can almost see it happening in slow motion, though at the time it was anything but slow. Like a mongoose with a cobra, Megan snatched the glasses off her face and tossed them across the foyer. It was the last time this wonderful woman got so close to us.
There wasn’t an evil bone in Megan; she just liked to grab and touch. She loved to snatch glasses and jewelry; she could snag flowers and have them in her mouth before you could say, “She loves me, she loves me not.” And she liked to grab hair. The longer and thicker, the better.
As Diane and I looked back through our Megan albums, we got tickled noticing how often one or both of us was holding her hands. Either that or we had something in her hands. As long as her hands were busy, she was fine.
We laugh as we remember how much she loved presents for Christmas—but not what was inside the packages; rather, she loved the wrapping. You had to coax her to go ahead and open the box to see what was inside. She’d quickly lay it aside and go back to the real treasure: the wrapping.
And we giggle nervously as we remember the time we said a prayer before lunch at a pizza place. One of us forgot to hold on, and before we knew it, she’d stripped the part of the pizza she liked—the layer of cheese on top—and tossed the rest, which landed tomato paste side down on the white blouse of a young woman.
One of my favorite memories of Megan is around our table. She loved to hold my hand while she was eating. I panicked this week as I tried to remember just how our hands fit. She didn’t go for interlocked fingers; and it wasn’t exactly like a normal hand-holding. But with a crooked twist that I learned to mirror, she made it work.
Megan’s hands were often dirty but always pure; they were strong, yet gentle; and, of course, they were fast and busy.
As she took her last breaths one November morning in a pediatric ICU, we were on either side of her bed, holding those precious hands. As she quit breathing, I remember thinking about Jesus’ final words: “Into THY hands, I commit my spirit.”
Having gone the ten years of her life with very little sleep, we tried to catch up. But the rest wasn’t deep, for it was filled with darkness and grief—which kept coming in waves. Five years later, we were inundated again when my 15 year old nephew died suddenly, having to watch the searing pain of my brother and sister-in-law and of my parents as they buried a second grandchild; and then another five years later we got hit again when our younger son nearly died in a rollover wreck on I-20 that claimed the life of his friend sitting next to him.
And it’s sometime after that third tidal wave that the dam broke—the dam holding back all my depression, doubt, and grief. It came flooding in, mixed with toxic streams of anger and shame.
It’s a time that I refer to in my prayer journal as TGD . . . The Great Darkness. I was riven, broken, shattered. I found myself in Jonah’s predicament:
The engulfing waters threatened me,
the deep surrounded me;
seaweed was wrapped around my head.
To the roots of the mountains I sank down;
the earth beneath barred me in forever.
And on top of all that, a dark, crusty melanoma popped up on my bald crown as if to mark a broken man.
I’ve reflected many times on the question: how did that happen? Was it lack of spiritual disciplines? Perhaps, but all through my years of ministry I prayed, journaled, and lived in scripture. Was it isolation? Sin? Self-pity? Probably yes, yes, and yes.
But even without a definitive answer for HOW it happened, this is what I know for sure: the dam broke and I was close to drowning from the depression, the doubt, and the grief.
Fast forward many years to today. “These are the good old days” — in family, in friendships, in purpose, and, especially, in marriage. (Our younger son just said to me, “You two are like teenagers.” As a 20-year-old, he probably didn’t mean that as a compliment!) These last several years have been full of joy.
So how did that healing occur? Some of the answers you might expect: therapists, friends, shepherds, prayer, etc.
But I mark the healing from—what?—a vision? a dream? Dare I say, a miracle? This is outside my experience as a winter Christian. I don’t hear directly from God or get special instructions or enjoy a miracle a minute.
If this was a miracle, it’s the only one I’ve experienced that I know of. I put it in the “maybe” category. Somedays even in the “probably” column.
It crept up on me in my sleep. It was a light, fitful, restless sleep, however, as I wondered if I’d ever live again. And then, in my dream—I call it a dream though it was more real than most of my waking hours!—Megan sat down by me. It wasn’t a quick dream that flashes by. It seemed to last the full night. She kept patting me with her hands saying, “You will be ok, Daddy.” When I woke up, I had to think long and hard about whether it had really occurred or not.
I’m still not entirely sure.
The truth is, she didn’t even have to speak those words. Her familiar hands said it all.
Later I heard a story of John Westerhoff that resonated with me. He was with a man who was desperately sick, whose daughter reached over and hugged him hard. He said to her, “You’re going to hug me to death!” She responded, “No, daddy, I’m hugging you back to life.”
. . . Which is why many of you have such clear memories of the hands of your mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers—even those long gone from this earth.
For those hands are much more than appendages to operate a fork or a pen. They are extensions of the grace of God. They bless, encourage, welcome, and remind us that no matter how broken we may feel, we will be well.
They remind us that one day God will take his own hands and wipe all tears from our eyes. And all will, indeed, be ok.
Max Lucado’s Pre-Conference Message
Rich Little (Revelation 1-3)
Fate Hagood (Revelation 4)
Dave Clayton (Revelation 5)
Don McLaughlin (Revelation 6-11)
Randy Harris (Revelation 12-13)
Mike Cope (Revelation 14-20)
Rick Atchley (Revelation 21-22)
Here’s the little blurb I wrote after reading Josh Ross’s excellent new book called Scarred Faith:
“If faith always works the way it should for you, if your prayers are always answered, if you’re always living in the delight of a spiritual summer, this book may just puzzle you. But if you have battled doubt, if you have agonized over God’s apparent silence, if you’ve felt gusts of winter chilling your spiritual journey—well, this is your book. Ross writes with raw honesty about life’s disappointments but also with bold hope about God’s future. I look forward to putting it in the hands of many people who are struggling to believe among life’s disappointments.”
Here are a few questions for Josh as the book is released:
Josh, because of my own life experiences with pain and grief, I identify with images and metaphors such as limping through life, wrestling with God, and living with scars. How did you settle on “scars” as the driving image of your book?
This book began as a commitment to journal for forty days because I needed healing. I had hit a wall in my faith journey a few years ago. I wasn’t at the point I was thinking about giving up on God, but I was definitely considering going through life (and ministry) with low expectations of what God can do in the here and now. At least if I lived with low expectations, I could save myself from ever feeling like God let me down.
As I began to write, it became clear that I was both wounded and scarred. A scar is a healed wound, and I had a number of them. But I also had open wounds that weren’t even close to becoming scars yet. The original title of the book was Scarred with God, because I was given assurance as I began writing that God dips into our pain to walk along with us, and at the time, I didn’t so much need a God who could deliver me from the pit, but a God who would get down in the pit with me.
You tap into something Philip Yancey, Nicholas Wolterstorff, and Anne Lamott have taught many of us, which is suffering can be stewarded. How has this played itself out in your life?
You had this line in your book Megan’s Secrets about grief being a gift, because it’s part of the healing process. Having witnessed you grieve and hang onto faith through your own pain taught me that suffering can be redeemed. Grief is never forgotten, but it can be embedded in the story of the resurrection.
Ian Morgan Cron was gracious to write the foreword, and it’s probably the best part of the book. He wrote this, “Joshua compassionately but firmly challenges us to move beyond asking “Why am I suffering?” and live into the question “What does my pain make possible?” I like that. A lot.
When Jenny got sick, we had just made a decision to relocate into the heart of Memphis. After she died, many people thought we would back out of our decision to move into a blighted community because of grief. However, in a way that’s hard to explain, Jenny’s death gave us even more energy to engage Memphis with intentionality. It still does. One day, Jenny might just be dancing in the redeemed streets of Memphis with many of the children who have lost their lives here because of malnutrition and abuse. I want to partner with God to usher in that day.
You conclude your book with three chapters that challenge the local church to embrace scarred-stories as if our lives depended on it. Why did you feel compelled to end your book this way?
I feel like the church hasn’t followed the life of Jesus when it comes to giving voice to brokenness and pain. At times, we’ve told people to keep quiet about their grief and suffering instead of learning to tell a more redeeming story of how Jesus can enter into grief and suffering. Maybe it’s the pastor in me, but I felt like I wanted to conclude this book with a charge to the church to embrace scarred-stories, to celebrate the beauty of confession, and to live as if we really believe the resurrection is the best news for the world.
As your mentor, is it true that I will receive 15% of the proceeds of this book?
Remember, I’m Josh Ross; not Max Lucado. I’ll be glad to buy tableside guacamole next time we’re at a Mexican food restaurant. Deal?
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My life has been enriched by living in the book of Revelation this year. I’ve read through it quickly and slowly; I’ve studied and dreamed; I’ve prayed inch by inch.
And I’ve been blessed by conversation partners, including these:
Richard Hays, etc., Revelation and the Politics of Apocalyptic Interpretation
Bruce Longnecker, The Lost Letters of Pergamum
Eugene Peterson, Reversed Thunder: The Revelation of John and the Praying Imagination
Barbara Rossing, The Rapture Exposed: The Message of Hope in the Book of Revelation
N. T. Wright, Revelation for Everyone (New Testament for Everyone)
Also, I can’t wait to get ahold of my former professor Rick Oster’s Seven Congregations in a Roman Crucible: A Commentary on Revelation 1-3
Please feel free to add in the comments section other books which have been helpful to you in studying Revelation.
Last Sunday I preached in Tulsa. By definition, it was spring. The vernal equinox had just passed. As certain as the whole solar system, it was (and is) spring.
However, it didn’t feel like spring. It was cold, dark, snowing, and breezy with a wind that cut to the raw bone.
It’s always disorienting when it is spring by definition but yet still feels like winter.
For believers, it is spring: Christ is risen! Yet for many of us, it still feels like winter. We identify with those powerful words Paul uses to describe our experience: groaning, longing, waiting, hoping. Those are not words of despair but of deep trust. They proclaim: “I believe spring has started even though it feels wintery.”
Even though it was cold, dark, and wet, I could see small signs of spring starting to peek out. And this I knew:Before long, the redbuds will brighten the earth, the irises and petunias will burst forth in stunning color.
And for us—Easter believers!—we eagerly await the day when dark losses and despairing griefs blossom into joy, joy, inexpressible joy.
To learn more about Dave Clayton and the Ethos Church, check out this site. Dave will be speaking on Wednesday night on Revelation 5.