The Weight of Hope
Advent in a hospital room..
I waited patiently for the Lord;
And He inclined to me,
And heard my cry.
About this time, a couple of years ago, our daughter spent a week in intensive care at our local children’s hospital. She has a rare and intractable form of epilepsy and started having seizures one evening – not unusual – but this time she was not stopping. By the time the ambulance had arrived at the emergency room, she had had dozens.
That week passed as anyone who has spent time in hospital knows – at times both tired and awake, resigned and hopeful, frustrated and thankful. There were flurries of activity then stillness, alone, as the various monitors blipped in and out of sync with each other. Largely, that week was spent waiting, to see if the heavy sedation would hold her seizures at bay, watching for the jagged lines to appear on the screen, which would show she was breathing on her own again.
Sometimes, I think of hospitals as a “thin place”, to borrow a concept found in Irish lore. Thin places are locations where the distance between heaven and earth is extra short. A hospital is not a classic thin place; they’re usually a mountaintop or sacred spot, but for me, a sick room is one of those places. Maybe that seems a touch melancholy; perhaps it depends on your experience of medical establishments. But being with the ill and injured has a way of reminding you that to be human is to feel the affects of sin. Hospitals are also places where wonderful acts of God’s providence cluster together – healing, recovery and new birth.
I had spent time with my daughter in hospital during Lent one year, and that really preaches – the need for redemption, for a saving Healer, is obvious if you have eyes to see it as you glance around the ward. But as our daughter lay there in a hospital room that Advent, the words of the Psalmist were lifting off the pages of my Bible: how long? We couldn’t do anything. The doctor’s plan was in place, it was working, all we could do was watch and wait for her to wake up.
Pondering this reminded me of a post at Mockingbird from earlier this year where Psalm 40 became the cry of a heavy heart. This story is about a father, and a son; not illness or disability this time, but addiction. Cole Huffman writes in heartbreaking honesty about his adult son, cycling in and out of bondage, wandering as it were, in a wilderness, as he waits to see if he will fall. “I still listen for the sound of my son falling. But God must be the one to catch him now, and for that I wait. [Psalm 40] holds out hope of freedom and regained footing for him, even as it expresses the anguish of waiting for me: “Be pleased, O Lord, to deliver me! O Lord, make haste to help me!”
How long? Sometimes it feels like the weight of the world will crush us if we must bear it much longer. Times of sickness, suffering, the work of interceding for a loved one, laboring for the Gospel, speaking truth in season and out, can feel, as Huffman writes, like “fighting a long defeat.” Yet he describes another weight we carry: patience is bearing the burden of hoping. “I don’t doubt what God can do. Getting jaded or cynical in the waiting just makes things heavier. My hope in my Redeemer is sure, just not always strong.”
I did read Psalm 40 in that hospital – it is perfect for the waiting room – but I also happened on Coverdale’s translation of Psalm 84: “Blessed is the man whose strength is in thee: in whose heart are thy ways; Who going through the vale of misery use it for a well: and the pools are filled with water. They will go from strength to strength and unto the God of gods appeareth every one of them in Zion.” I know why Advent is a favorite season for many – it arrives with a thrill of hope for a weary world; a Savior is on the way! But even in the sojourn towards our heavenly home, Advent reminds us that God gifts his saints with wells of water in the wilderness, exchanging bitter for sweet as his lovingkindness is renewed every morning.
Hoping can be hard work. But Advent calls for us to wait on Jesus Christ, preparing ourselves for his return. It does not always look like strength, waiting on His mercy, His timing, His judgment, but Christmas will eventually dawn, because he who promised is mighty. In one thin place, God’s reality broke into ours. The plan to save the world was sealed.
Jesus is never late – Lazarus proved that – He shows up right on time. But while we wait, He gives us enough for each step – Word, water, bread and wine. His brilliant reality breaks into our dark places, sustaining our hope for that great day when everything will be made new.