Nearly There

“When a woman is giving birth, she has sorrow because her hour has come, but when she has delivered the baby, she no longer remembers the anguish, for joy that a human being has been born into the world.

So also you have sorrow now, but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you.” — John 16:21-22

I stood in that small cold church, the stones cracked with the weight of years, the rafters darkened with the residue of smoke, and a gathering of our dearest people known. But I only recall those details from photos. It isn’t the two decades since that have dulled my memory; I don’t recall those beautiful things because they were eclipsed by the only beauty I had eyes to see. That was the day I enacted a covenant of love and fidelity, swearing to protect and care for her like my own flesh, and by God’s good grace, despite my sin, we have walked that covenant together for almost 22 years.

So as I sat beside the hospital bed, watching wave after wave of anguish and pain sweep over her, my heart broke as all I could do is sweep the hair from her eyes and whisper, “You’re nearly there.” We were in our second year of marriage when our first-born came into the world. I do not pretend to know the pain a woman endures as she empties herself to bear life into the world, but I do know what it feels like to see your own flesh, the heart of your heart, the one you have cherished and embraced, endure the curse of sin through the agony of childbirth. I still feel the ache of my own heart as I sat helpless, unable to protect, unable to bear this trial, unable to carry this load, just watch, just sit, just whisper, “You’re almost there.”

Then there he was. Our son. While my wife had felt his every kick and stretch, while she felt a bond of familiarity already, one May 1, 2001, I met my boy for the first time. The anguish and vivid torment of the previous hours began to melt away, all that was left was the mingled tears of two who had suddenly become three. That long night became a distant memory by the time two more were added before another three years had passed.

Two decades later and my son is gone. No gravestone marks his death, or memorial service to recall in our grief. Instead, my son lives apart from us. His path, he said, forked away from faith, and as he walked that wide way, it lead him away from us. Mother’s Day was filled with a filtered light, light and shadow held an uneasy truce, joy and sorrow held hands long into the evening. The boy I watched struggle into this world is now struggling with the world. My wife who I saw bear him, bears him still. It seems some pains always linger.

“My ways aren’t your ways, father. Your faith isn’t mine.” So with hands that felt leaden and lifeless, I clung to him in futility, numb to the reality that he was filling the frame of my door for the last time. I pried my hands away, even as I quietly entrusted them into the scarred hands of the shepherd who would continue to pursue him, and listened to the gentle weeping of my wife where she had slumped to her knees.

Two nights, two decades apart. Both recalled now with tears. Sometimes I’m tempted to bury the pain, to leave it unattended in pursuit of some other joy. But I can’t. I won’t.

In days like now, I sit quietly in the evening and recall the anguish of that first night. It reminds me that though sorrow can be profound in the moment, that pain seems to have won the hour, joy comes in the morning. The absence of Jesus following his death was profoundly painful, but the agony of Friday, the oppressive silence of Saturday, the fear and bewilderment of Sunday were suddenly swept away with, “Peace be with you.”

“Peace be with you.” It’s dark now, sorrow has won the hour. But it won’t always.

Even now, as the waves of sorrow and pain sweep over us, we cling to the hope we have in Christ. So must you. Your hour has come, and yet we must hope against hope, living in the present but clinging to tomorrow.

Dear friend, we’re nearly there. Hold on just a little longer. Joy comes in the morning.

“But, Lord, ’tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!
Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul!” — It Is Well With My Soul, Horatio G. Spafford