A Panoramic View

Sometimes when you're in the thick of it, it can feel dark and lonely, overwhelming and hard. Unbearably hard. 

There are too many people in my life right now who are dealing with unfathomable, unspeakable, cruel, heart-wrenching despair. 

It can shake one's faith, one's trust in others, one's trust in God. 

There is no end in sight and sometimes, it requires just taking things one breath at a time. Not one minute at a time- one breath. And just holding on like hell. 

Oh, how I wish I could take the pain and hardship away from my people. I wish I could fast-forward time, erasing the bad and saving the good. 

But I can't. And I can't even fully relate, because they are the only ones living their stories and trying to remember to breathe. I don't know how it feels to be them right now. Excruciating, I imagine. However, I can't truly know because I'm not them.

But. 

If I may, I'd like to share a recent story from my life, and also a message my pastor delivered over the weekend, in an attempt to offer some sort of something: 

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I have felt pretty disheartened at times, particularly over the last few weeks, when it comes to our beautiful Bella. I have felt so angry and sad and frustrated and confused by the hand she has been dealt: about the medical uncertainties, about the hours upon hours of needed intervention, about the many appointments and procedures she has had and will have, about all that remains unknown. But also? About the fact that so much of this is because she had to live her first 2+ years of life as an orphan among (hundreds of) orphans. About the fact that we have virtually no thorough medical record. About the fact that there is so much we don't know and will never know about her first days, weeks, months, years. It brings me to my knees. It breaks my heart. 

Sometimes, it feels like I am running as hard as I can to help my daughter and not getting anywhere. 

But then, days like this past Monday happen. 

I was feeling defeated - wanting to see these leaps and bounds in Bella's development and instead, having to settle for baby steps (sometimes, when I feel defeated, I forget that leaps and bounds AND baby steps are both forward progress, but I digress). Anyway. It was cold and had started to rain. I dropped Raleigh off at dance and quickly raced to the grocery store to pick up a few items we needed, moving fast in order to get back in time for dance pick-up. Bella was fussy, I was frustrated. It had been a hard day, a hard couple of weeks, really, and I just wanted to hurry up and get out of there already. 

I stood in the check-out line, chatting with the very kind cashier. To be honest, I was faking my kindness in return because I was feeling pretty low and grouchy. She continued to ring up our items as I proceeded to pay. And then, it struck me: Bella. She wasn't distraught, crying, panicked, and reaching for me, begging me to help her escape the cart and get away from this stranger, who was now standing closer to her than her momma. I glanced up to see her calmly watching the cashier place our bagged groceries in our cart. Then, she looked over at me, her momma, and smiled. Like it was no big deal. 

Except. It WAS a big deal. Because my daughter, who, for months, has been terrified of grocery checkouts - when she is momentarily closer to the casher than me - knew that she was safe and that everything was okay. This was progress. 

Sometimes its hard to see that things are moving forward when you're in the thick of it. We can't see the full story. We can't know how things will work out. 

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On Sunday, our pastor began a very powerful series on coping with disappointment and despair. He eloquently shared an analogy about a parasailing adventure he and his wife had taken one time. While in the air, they looked down and saw a shark. But they also saw a great big ocean, filled with space and time and endless possibilities. Here's the thing: when we are in the thick of things, of unspeakable, heartbreaking anguish, of challenges and hurt no one should ever have to endure, we can become lost in this ocean of despair. We can only see the shark that's directly in front of us. What we aren't privy to is what God sees: He has the overhead view. Yes, he sees the shark (and no, He isn't always the one who placed it there), but he also sees the rest of the ocean, the rest of the story. He knows why the shark is there, and He knows how the story will unfold. 

While we can't have God's all-knowing, all-seeing, panoramic view, we can try to adopt a parasailing view: when the darkness is closing in, look for the light. Look beyond the shark. Know that God sees you, He sees the shark, and He sees the rest of the story. Hold on. Just take your next breath. Stay afloat. And know that He (and we, your people) have got you.