Why "Miracles from Heaven" Makes Us Cry

I went to see "Miracles from Heaven" last night and from the moment of walking into the theater lobby, was concerned. All women. Every one.  Not a bad thing, but when they come armed with handfuls of tissues, declaring that they expect to cry, well, that concerns me.

Crying, last time I checked, is not a good time. It can be cathartic, relieving, and useful, but it's never, in my experience, enjoyable. Even at weddings. Even in victory.

So we were off to a bad start.

"Miracles from Heaven" is advertised as a true story and I believe it is. But beware. It is not everyone's story. It is not hardly anyone's story.

Anna Beam, the sick little girl at the story's center, is cute and sad and suffering, so sick that she wants, at one point, to die. I didn't blame her. Of course, the movie is about a miracle, so we know from the very beginning that she won't and she doesn't. I'm glad about that. But the story isn't really hers--it's her mother's--her mother, Christy Beam, whose faith fails during her daughter's illness and is regenerated at her healing.

That's the part that bothered me.  I believed the little girl. I believed Anna. I believed her suffering. I believed her faith. I believed her healing and her carefree embracing of renewed life afterward. But I felt sad for Christy.

She got her daughter back, of course, and that's good, but what kind of faith did she get? She got a faith borne on the back of healing. What happens if Anna gets sick again? Or her husband? Or one of her other daughters?

Frankly, I was hoping Anna would not survive. I wanted to see Christy in real victory, a victory that is the product of common sorrow, of looking square in the face of our worst fear and knowing that God still loves us and is still directing our lives for good in spite of circumstances. I wanted to see a Christy walk away with a faith that would last. As it is, I couldn't help but wonder what would happen to Christy's faith the next time it is tried. 

That was when I understood the tears in the audience--and there were tears, lots of them. Christy got her daughter back--for awhile at least. But most people don't. Most sick loved ones don't live. They die. And we know it. We see it every day. We know that Christy's story will probably not be ours.

We rejoice in Christy's good fortune, but know that we will probably not get that same miracle. Our loved one, when faced with a life-threatening illness or accident will probably not survive. And that is the more common challenge of faith.  That we are to find God in our sorrow, not just in our victory. We are going to need a faith more than that given to Christy Beam. I am going to need it.

So we cry at "Miracles from Heaven". For Christy's pain. For Anna's suffering. And for our own. Fortunately, God hears those cries. Because, regardless of physical deliverance that may or may not come, we are drawn close in trial and loved. That is a miracle. That is my miracle.

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Uphill Both Ways

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This week, I was thinking about what it was like to walk to school in the wintertime--wind cutting sharp edges into my cheeks, fingers and toes numb, layers of jackets and snow pants humid from effort, the scratchy red scarf across my mouth--I walked. Not ten miles uphill both ways, but a mile and a half. Every day. Rain, snow, or shine. We had no school bus. Mom didn't drive.

And it occurred to me that I will never be able to explain to my children or grandchildren what that felt like. Never. No words could describe it. Only the experience would explain, and then I would no longer need an explanation. They will never know this. They get in the car not with gratitude, but with entitlement.

They don't mean to--they just never knew anything else. They don't understand. Privilege has hardened their hearts.

Then [Jesus] climbed into the boat with them and the wind died down. They were completely amazed, for they had not understood about the loaves; their hearts were hardened.--Mark 6: 51-52

The apostles knew the same hardening. They watched Jesus day after day, miracle by miracle. Amazing events became their daily bread. And their hearts were hardened by them. They took them for granted. Right after He'd multiplied the loaves and fishes, fed more than 5000 people from nearly nothing, they went fishing and encountered not only a storm strong enough to threaten their safety, but see Jesus walking across the water toward them in the midst of it and they are terrified--they don't know who He is.

The miracle on the hillside did not translate for them into a miracle on water. Jesus relieving a relatively minor problem, giving a bunch of people lunch, did not teach them that He could rescue them from a major one. Why? Because their hearts were hardened. 

He could not explain His power. He had to show them.
So He brought the storm.
He used it to show them: This is what it feels like to be terrified. And this is what I can do for you when terror comes.

We are the same. God's faithfulness in hardship cannot be explained. It has to be experienced.
I will never leave you, God tells us. I will never forsake you.
But privilege has hardened our hearts. It doesn't sink in until after the storm has calmed and Jesus is standing in the boat saying, "See--I told you." Then we know.

It helps to have heard the promise--it helps us to recognize the rescue when it comes, but the promise alone will not convince us. We have been hardened by God's lifelong faithfulness and mercy. We expect it. Only when He seems to have failed do we understand the extent of His rescue.
Then we hear His gentle voice, "Remember this feeling. Believe me."

What Angels Say

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The dark of night in Bethlehem.
He's born.
Mary and Joseph hold their newborn baby in those first hours, counting fingers and toes, watching those first hungry searchings, listening to those first snuffling coos. The first private moments of their parenthood. But not for long.

They have company.

source: jesuschrististhetruth.com

Angels kept them company.
Angels. God's messengers. Whenever they show up, pay attention. God has something to say.

Mary and Joseph's ancient world was a mess just like ours. Herod ran rampant, already issuing orders for the murder of children to eradicate any possibility of a challenge to his authority. Men labored achingly all their lives. Women served them with no governmental or societal equality. Only half of children lived to adulthood. Poverty reigned. Few could read. Kings held whole continents under thrall. Many died young from diseases we easily arrest today. Ignorance and prejudice and greed bred war.

But the angels brought a message from God:
Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion; shout O daughter of Jerusalem; behold, thy King cometh unto thee...--Zechariah 9:9

Imagine them, in a barn--no, less than a barn--a cave, sharing space with animals. It was not a gentle setting. They had hay, and a manger, but no heat source, no convenient water, no facilities whatever. Just each other, the rudeness of animals, and faith in what they'd been promised.

It'd been a long time since the angel's first proclamation to Mary that she would bear a Son and that son would be Emmanuel, God with us.

She'd had nine months to think about this, to bear up under public derision, to witness Joseph's doubt, to watch Elizabeth bear her own miracle, to herself grow big and heavy and weary. To know, but to sometimes wonder.

We do it, too. We do not hear God's promise daily. It comes emphatically sometimes, when we cannot mistake it, but often it only whispers, a sigh we too often miss. But on some blessed mornings, in some dark stables, on some beds of pain and tears, it comes with announcement.

This is the promise, said the angel. This is your salvation. This is not only your son. He is Christ the Lord.

Why Do They Get all the Good Miracles?

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A pastor in Libya is rescued from a firing squad.
A child in Zambia is healed overnight from tuberculosis.
Christ appears to a man in an Egyptian jail who comes to believe.
BUT
Here, my sweet, believing friend dies from cancer.
Here, my father dies before acknowledging the truth of the gospel.

WHY?
Why do they get the miracles and we don't?

Hm... maybe because we don't need them in the same way.

After all, God gave us, here in the U.S., different stuff.
We have relative safety.
We have abundant wealth.
We have good health care.

The people in Libya and Zambia and Egypt don't. They have active war, and famine, and poverty, and rampant disease. I don't know why, but it's true.
So when they look for God, where do they find Him? In the places they need Him most.
And He shows up there.

And how about us? Where do we need God most?
It's not in the same places.
My friend who died got excellent medical care because God made that possible. And she didn't die in a fly-blown grass hut, alone and in excruciating pain. She died in a nursing home surrounded by caring nurses and loving family.
My father did not grow up in a Muslim nation that executed Christians, but in a place where the truth of Christ poured out all around him from nearly every member of his family, and by which he was consequently well-loved his whole adult life.
My friend and my father did not need the same kind of miracles.
And they didn't get them.

So where do our miracles come? 
Where do we most need God to intervene?

Consider the lilies, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. Do not seek what you are to eat and what you are to drink, or be of anxious mind. For all the nations of the world seek these things; and your Father knows that you need them. Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom.--Luke 12: 27, 29, 32

God gives us what we do not already have because there we will be most likely to see Him and His kingdom.
Only when we come to the end of our own resources will God make a miracle.
He has already given us gifts and expects us to use them.

Looking for a miracle?
Look to that place where gifts end, where strength fails.
Look to that place where only hope remains.
There is the stage set for a miracle.

Can You Feel It?

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Expect miracles.
That sounds good, like something worth doing, but what, exactly, does a miracle look like?
It's easy, really.
A miracle is the place where God injects Himself into our world. 
It's the place where He touches us, where He lets us get a glimpse, where He is, well, Himself in a world that is so not like Him.
And we should expect Him. He's here, all around, just waiting.

Lord, I have heard of your fame, I stand in awe of your deeds, O Lord. Renew them in our time. Make them known.--Habakkuk 3:2

This is not only a plea. It's an expectation of wonder, of revelation.
"Make yourself known," we say.
"With pleasure," He says, and then He reaches down.

We are God's people, and God is great. Why not expect great works from Him?
He loves us. Why not expect His touch?

The world will not change much. It will continue to disappoint and to fall into decay. We know that.
But God did not create us to drop us on our heads.
He has something wonderful for us in Himself. 
Anticipate Him.
Can you feel it?

What He Gave Me

Most people grow up with an expectation of disappointment or an overriding attitude of fear.
It's true.
I didn't know it for a long time but when I started to ask, almost everyone told me this.
Disappointment and fear: is this how we are meant to live?
No, of course not.

I grew up with an expectation of wonder. And I got it from my dad.
When we were young, Dad took us out for rides on Sunday afternoons (gas was 25 cents). He never told us where we were going, so we looked with anticipation around every corner, asking "Are we there yet?"  When we finally arrived, always at a place Dad had found just for the occasion--a waterfall, or a pristine sledding hill, or a remote Hopi village--he presented it to us with a flourish as if to say, "Isn't it wonderful?" And it always was.
And that was our framework for life.
He showed me what a really fine tomato tastes like.
He marked out the profile of the man in the moon.
He plunged my hands into yeasty, rising dough.
He rolled me down a hill fragrant with just-cut grass.
He stood me in front of President Lincoln and told me to think.
He showed me what the world looked like from the sky.
And it was all wonderful.

My father told me to be smart and careful, but not to be afraid.
And, more importantly, he taught me to LIVE. 
And, without meaning to, he taught me about God.

Do not fear, for I am with you--Isaiah 41:10
For God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity--2Timothy 1:7
I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.--Psalm 27:13

Today: Don't Miss It

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Stop.
You are missing something.
Right now. This minute.

It's your life.
What happens when you are doing something else.
The bloom opening between breaths.
The tap of first rain.
Silent minutes that neglect to announce their passing.

They belonged to you,
gifts showered one by one.
You were meant to pick them up,
smell each in its turn,
let it run down your hand and arm
until it becomes only cool shine,
and makes room for more.

I sometimes fear that, having ignored too many little drops,
I how hear only the crash of life's wave,
bearing down, almost to shore.

But I looked up today,
and it came.
The one drop.
Fragrant, cool, sweet with washing.

This one, I kept, and savored,
remembering that the waterfall would never roar
if each droplet, in its turn, did not fall. 

Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfall.--Psalm 42:7

Walking on Broken Glass

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It's been a tough week--husband in the hospital, and my spiritual mother taking her last sweet breaths...
And this morning, I walked barefoot onto a kitchen floor covered with broken glass.
Really.

During the night, one of our cats knocked over a wine glass I left on the counter, unwashed, from the night before and it broke into the kind of million scary pieces that only thin, fragile glass can. It fell right near the kitchen door and scattered everywhere.  
When I walked in, though, I didn't get cut by it. 

As I stepped into the room, my toe kicked the first piece, pushing it out of the way. Then I took another step. And another. And then (finally) I looked down. Broken glass surrounded the spot where I stood.

I couldn't NOT have gotten cut.
But I didn't.

And that was the point.
It wasn't only my kitchen that was full of broken glass. My life was full of it, too.
Potential hurt and danger on two of life's fronts that mean the most to me. Potential fodder for fear. Definitely.

But God was carrying me.
He held me safe on all fronts, watched me so that I would not come to harm.
And, as I stood unharmed, surrounded by broken glass, I knew why He'd made for me a little miracle.
I knew what He was trying to say:

I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go...I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.--Genesis 28:15
Indeed, the very hairs of your head are numbered.  Don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.--Luke 12:7

Is It Time Yet?

I always got a kick out of our first glimpse of the adult Jesus at a party with his mother. When she asks Him to do something, He tells her He doesn't think it's a good idea.  Sounds like conversations I've had with my own thirty-something son:
"Not now, Mom."
"Really? Now?"
Sounds a bit like what Jesus said to his own mother:
Dear woman, why do you involve me? My time has not yet come.--John 2:4
At least He called her 'dear woman.'
But, aside from the common familiar comedy of it, the situation reminds me of something important.
Even in the kingdom of God, there are times for things.

Jesus knew this at the above wedding, when He told His mom that it was not yet time for Him to be acclaimed for public miracles.
He knew this later, when His friends went to Jerusalem for the festival, but He did not:
Therefore Jesus told them, “My time is not yet here; for you any time will do.--John 7:6
He also knew when His time had finally come:
Jesus replied, "The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified."--John 12:23

And He also knew when the time had not only come, but was over:
 “It is finished.”--John 19:30

It is the same for us.
There are times for things.
To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to reap, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to break down and a time to build up, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance...--Ecclesiastes 3:1-4

It's true.
Once a life situation begins, it will probably end.
Once we pick something up, we will probably have to put it down.
Once we take someone into our life, we will probably have to let them go.

Not worship, love, or my battle with sin, of course. Those will continue all my life.
But the others? They will all, at some time, end.
And it's OK.
Their time has either not yet come, or is over.
Really.

The Only Miracle

Jesus, the very Power of God, showed the world who He was in part by performing miracles.
To do this, He had to approach the filthy and festering, the poor and vile.  They were all the same to Him.
They were sinners who needed His miracle.
And so am I.
I need His miracle, too.

This is what I ask of my God--
As You made them see again, give me sight.
As You made them hear, open my ears to holy Truth.
As You made them walk, keep my steps turned toward your leading.
As You cured withered hands, keep mine devoted to your service.
As You raised them from dead, keep me in new life.

Now, Christ healed generously in kindness and compassion, but I know that part of the healing is my responsibility.  I have, in this transaction, something to do, too.
I must truly desire change.
What do you want me to do for you?--Mark 10:51
That is the hardest part.
I must want the miracle so badly that I stop being what I am, what I have nurtured and built in myself, the only 'me' I know.

Instead, I must zealously follow Him, look for Him, desire Him.
I must trust Him.
I must listen.
I must love Him with my whole heart, soul, and mind.

Then I will receive the real miracle.
There is, after all, only one.
It isn't the healed hand or the seeing eye or the sure step.
The miracle is only and always the glimpse of Himself that He brings every day.
Say only the word, and my soul shall be healed.--Matthew 8:8