And If Not, Is He Still Good? (On Her View from Home)

If all things work for good for those who love God, what does that mean when a child is dying? A childhood friend of mine has a son with serious heart defects. Three weeks ago, they headed up to Michigan for heart surgery with the only surgeon in the country willing to perform the procedure he needed to save his life. His recovery was precarious, and several days ago he went into cardiac arrest. He's been on life support ever since.

He's also the same age as my Ellie.

Throughout this, I've wrestled with the goodness of God, what it looks like when a prayer is answered, and why we live in a world where bad things happen. I'm still short on answers, but I did find a perspective that lets me hold space for both: God is good and sometimes bad things happen.

Read the full essay on Her View From Home.

As you can imagine, the Kelleys are facing substantial travel and medical costs during this time. If you'd like to contribute financially, you can do so here. And please keep them in your prayers.

The Calm in the Midst of the Storm

Let me tell you the story of the calmest, coolest bride there ever was.

It started on Thursday with flowers. They were supposed to arrive that afternoon, but we received word that morning that the entire shipment of ceremony and reception flowers was still on a plane in Colombia (the country). I made a few calls and sent a few texts, and we found a place to order backup flowers from. Only when Plan B was in place did I call Cassidy with the news.

"That sounds fine; no problem," she said cheerily. "I'm sure it will be great."

On Saturday, the (outdoor) wedding forecast was for scattered storms and showers. There was no indoor venue backup plan. We pushed back the setup time to 2, then to 4. Friends rolled heavy tables across the lawn from the lakeside setup to one closer to cover. While the rest of us watched the sky and made contingencies, she stayed calm, even-keel, and unflustered.

The wedding was to start at 7. Radar showed a massive storm arriving at 7:10. Everything and everyone was crowded under the open-air, covered pavilion—the best shelter available. We hurried the bride across the lawn and under cover at the precise moment that the first raindrops fell.

She walked down the aisle and when she arrived at the front, so did the 70 mph winds that knocked centerpieces and glass jars to the ground. The thunder and lightning were incessant. Children were crying, adults were casting anxious glances at a dark and furious sky, and the ceremony paused while everyone huddled together in the center. The bride never stopped smiling, while the groom, officiant, and friends compared weather sources and debated what to do. The winds abated briefly, but there was a series of storms lined up behind the first. It was clear this was as good as it was going to get, weather-wise.

"Snuggle together—we're getting married!" the groom shouted to the cheers of the crowd.

Handwritten vows were read, tears were wiped, rings exchanged. They were pronounced husband and wife. Another cheer went up from the windblown, rain-spattered friends and family surrounding them.

With the decorations strewn across the ground by the wind and more storms imminent, the decision was made to cancel the reception and encourage folks to head for shelter. Many dispersed, but several also formed a line to hug the new couple.

"Most memorable wedding ever!" was the frequent refrain. "We will never, ever forget this night."

As we cleaned up after the last of the crowd departed, my hair worked its way loose from the bobby pins and the hem of my dress was soaked. But all I kept thinking about was I would indeed remember this night forever.

I'll remember the wind, rain, thunder and lightning. I'll remember watching my brother find love, joy, and redemption after a lonely and hard season.

But mostly, I'll remember her face and how she never stopped smiling. How her constant refrain was "I'm great/it's great/whatever you all think." I'll remember her smile as she read the note he sent her and the way her eyes sparkled when they were pronounced man and wife. She was never ruffled, never worried, never shaken.

I've never seen anything like it. But then, I've never known anyone else like Cassidy. She is joy, and peace, and certainty in the midst of turmoil. You can't help but feel she knows something you don't. So you draw closer and you watch carefully, and you realize that it's Jesus. Her trust and confidence in Him is unwavering. The rest of us are the disciples on the boat in the middle of the storm-shaken sea, bailing water and casting frantic glances at the sky. She is the one watching Jesus sleep and trusting that if he thinks it's okay, then it will be okay.

It was all okay.

And now I have a sister who will remind me where to look when the storm rages.

That Kind of Love

bowl

I'm in a Bible Study that meets every Thursday night. Most of us are mothers and all of us are women, but when we started our only common thread was the woman whose house we meet in. Ms. Ava knew some of us from church and some of us from other parts of her life, but she invited all of us to come sit on her couch once a week and talk about life through the filter of Jesus. We've been meeting for more than two years—a newborn Ellie accompanied me to the very first one. Over the years, we've developed our own bonds of sisterhood as we've helped each other navigate through births, losses, hard decisions, and bad news.

For the past several weeks, we've been studying the book of John. I will confess my disappointment when this was chosen for our study—John has never been my favorite writer in the Bible. I find him flowery and descriptive, with all his talk about Light and Life, vines and branches. Matthew and Luke have always been my preferred gospels, grounded in facts and the fulfillment of prophecy. John frustrates me, and because of that I find myself getting frustrated with Jesus.

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." (John 1:1)

So ... capital letter—Jesus is the word? What word? Jesus is the Bible? Jesus is God? THIS IS WHAT YOU START WITH, JOHN?

"Then they asked him, 'Where is your father?' 'You do not know me or my Father,' Jesus replied. 'If you knew me, you would know my Father also.'" (John 8:19)

HEAVEN, Jesus. Your Father is GOD and He's in HEAVEN. As I tell my children, USE YOUR WORDS, JESUS.

There are a lot of shouty capitals when I read John.

My frustration with John (and Jesus) takes me all the way to the Upper Room on Thursday night during Holy Week. Jesus has spent the day explaining to his disciples that where He's about to go they cannot follow (just tell them you're dying, Jesus) and that one of them is about to betray him (Jesus, tell them it's Judas. Someone will stop him—my money is on Peter).

I empathize with the disciples and the way they keep missing the point of Jesus' stories.

Me too, guys. Just say what you mean, Jesus. Stop dancing around the metaphors and the parables and the answering of questions with another question. How is this supposed to help my faith? I've been in the church since I was weeks old; I've heard every story and know every character, and even I'm wondering how it's possible to have faith in someone who can't answer a simple question in a straight manner. Can't He just SHOW us what he means?

And then, He does.

They're about to eat when Jesus wraps a towel around his waist and gets a bowl of water and a pile of rags. He kneels before his friends and takes their dusty, calloused feet in his hands. One by one, he washes them.

Even Judas.

Yes, Jesus washed the feet of the man who would betray him. I wonder what Judas felt like during those moments. Did he feel loved? Known? Guilty? We know little about Judas, but sometimes I wonder if it's this scene that played over and over in his mind when he tried to unravel his betrayal. When he found it couldn't be undone and he tied his own noose.

Not everyone knows what to do with that kind of love, I guess.

They say that John was the last one to write his gospel. He knew what Matthew, Mark and Luke had written by the time he wrote his, which means he included the story about Jesus washing feet, knowing they'd left it out.

Clearly it meant something to John, and it's everything to me. It redeems the confusing metaphors and analogies, because he finally captures one that couldn't be more clear.

Jesus takes the dirtiest parts of us, and makes them clean. When he commanded us to love one another, he didn't specify who the "other" was, but he didn't have to. He'd already shown us.

Not everyone knows what to do with that kind of love, though. Sometimes it's hard enough to love and serve our family, our friends. Washing the feet of the person who has hurt me the most? I don't know how to do that. I don't even know where to start.

But then, I remember that Jesus showed me that part, too.

It begins with getting on my knees.