We are on day five of watching our son fade and my whole body feels at war with itself.
My physical body is tired of the fight and wants things to come to a conclusion so it can find peace again. It cannot sleep or eat or rest properly.
My mother’s heart looks at our war-weary boy and wants to release him to a much better place where he doesn’t have to do this anymore. This is the part of me that climbs into bed with him and regularly whispers to him about heaven, about how wonderful it is and how it’s okay to go there, because for him it will be like a twinkling of an eye and we will all be together again. It’s the part that asks God to take him sooner rather than later, even though it’s the last thing I want to say.
But there is a part of me that will not let go. I thought it was the selfish part of me that wanted to keep him for longer, but I have realized it is not that. It is the part of me, my spirit, that has walked with God for many years, and has yearned for Him and learned from Him. It’s the part that is fed not by sight or by feelings but by His Word. This part of me knows God, and knows His promises and will not lie dormant. No matter how much I know we do not deserve a miracle, my spirit tells me that God is able to do immeasurably more than we ask or even imagine. It tells me that the prayers of a righteous man are powerful and effective, and there are THOUSANDS of people who have been made righteous by Christ who are praying for our boy right now. It tells me that God hears the cries of the righteous and that His arm is not too short to save. It tells me that God’s hand rescues people right ought of the lowest pit, right from the grave. It tells me God is able to part the seas, flood the earth, move mountains and heal people from terminal diseases with just one touch of His garment. It tells me that Jesus saw sick people and had compassion on them and His heart was stirred to heal them. It tells me that the Holy Spirit inside of us gives us power to cast out demons and heal sick people. It tells me that by Jesus’ wounds, we are healed.
Whether I’m reading His Word to my boy or myself, or sleeping holding it to my chest at night, or even nowhere near it, these promises are pulsing through every fibre of my being.
So how can I stop fighting and let go of hope when all my spirit knows is the God of All Hope?