Several days ago, I received a text from one of my daughters that said, “love you mom. thankful that you’re here.” It took me only a few seconds to realize that it was the 5-year anniversary of my brain aneurysm rupture. This was the first year since my hospitalization that I was not keenly aware of the significance of April 18th. I scanned my body and my soul quickly to see what, if anything, I felt about that. What I observed was…nothing! The thought that followed that one was, “Wow! God, you have brought about so much physical and emotional healing! Thank you!”

Close on the heels of that reflection of gratitude, though, came thoughts of the suffering of others: friends whose husbands died unexpectedly, a friend facing yet another round of treatment against a relentless cancer, friends who are struggling with anxiety and depression, a friend with dementia whose husband is self-sacrificially caring for her, friends at church who battle chronic illness and pain, friends who have lost a spouse due to divorce, family members with physical and financial challenges, ruptures in friendships and communities that have left a long wake of pain. Why did God graciously heal me in response to the prayers of my loved ones when the equally fervent prayers for others seem to go unanswered? Why has my suffering abated while the suffering of others has increased?

The following morning, I read Psalm 139, and I was reminded of the way that God, alone, is able to be present to us in all circumstances.

“Where can I go from your Spirit?
    Where can I flee from your presence?
8 If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
    if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
9 If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
    if I settle on the far side of the sea,
10 even there your hand will guide me,
    your right hand will hold me fast.
11 If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
    and the light become night around me,”
12 even the darkness will not be dark to you;
    the night will shine like the day,
    for darkness is as light to you.”

Certainly, those words from scripture did not answer my “why” questions, but I was encouraged by the recollection of how, in my moments of greatest pain and bleary-eyed consciousness, I *knew* that God was with me. Unable to articulate an impressive prayer, I was comforted by the prayers of others. Limited in communication, my own, ever-so-brief thoughts of “Jesus” or “Abba” were enough. Having lost all sense of time (I’m still amazed when I learn of what was going on during the days when I was unconscious or barely conscious), I had no choice but to live moment by moment. The words of the psalmist, stating that God’s presence is real in every circumstance really did prove to be true for me.

Those memories, that time of my particular trial, can also serve to animate me as I pray for the situations I named above. As a logical, left-brain type of person (I would classify myself as INTJ/Enneagram 5, for anyone who finds that kind of detail interesting), I have found that my relationship with God has become more dimensional as I’ve learned to embrace devotional practices that invite imagination, attune to beauty, and incorporate my physical body as well as my mind. Such practices have given me a greater variety of ways to pray and a more tangible means of grief for the unresolved difficulties of friends and family. At the same time the scriptures remind me of the truth of who God is and what I can ask of him on behalf of burdened people. As I see in my mind the friend who is feeling a deep sense of isolation from loss, I can, confidently, ask God to be present to her in that darkness and loneliness. When I think of someone whose mental health has hijacked a sense of hope, I can picture Jesus calming the storm and ask him to speak peace over that person’s nervous system, ask the Spirit to remind him or her that the darkness is as light to God.

In the great tension of the now-and-the-not-yet, today -- in spite of brokenness and sorrow -- I am rejoicing that I have been given the last five years, regardless of what may come in the future. As it says in the latter part of Psalm 139, “all the days ordained for me were written in your book.” Whatever the number of those days, whatever the quality of my health, I want to state, plainly, that I consider it a gracious gift that I can write these words today! God is forming me to be the woman that I was created to be, but I know I’ve not yet arrived at the final point of maturity. Likewise, because I know that I am God’s beloved, I am certain that nothing will thwart that final goal.