Beth Pensinger's Blog

“I hate you!”

The words erupted from my lips with such force that my throat went dry and pulsed with pain. The cold metal of my 380 Keltec felt odd as it pressed into my temple. Especially since I was the one holding it in place. I’m not sure why I’d put my gun to my head when I’d felt so much rage toward Jerimiah. In retrospect, the only thing I can come up with is that I’d wanted to demonstrate the severity of my feelings.

We’d had our repeat argument. It was the kind of argument which had roots so deep and widespread it was nearly impossible to unearth the growth. And so it became more firmly entrenched. By the evening of April Fool’s Day 2013 (the launch date of my self-published book, Let Me Fall), I’d already researched my life insurance policy for a suicide exclusion and composed my suicide note. Fueled with rage and hopelessness from yet another episode of our repeat argument, I drove in the dark until I found myself in an empty parking lot. I examined the gun in my lap and willed myself to find the courage to end my misery.

“I’m a f*$%#!@ coward. Sorry for cussing. I’d do it if I just had a spine.” I turned to look at the Holy Spirit in the passenger seat. “I’m done with the book. It’s published. It’s out.” My eyes pooled with tears. “Can’t You just take me out now?”

“Of course I can—” He said before I cut Him off.

“Do it then.” I shoved my gun at Him and started crying harder. “I don’t—“ I gulped a breath. “—f*$%#!@ want to be alive anymore.” The force of my words caused hot spit to fling from my lips, but the sobs took over and I found I didn’t care.

Long moments passed before my hysterics subsided and I said, “Sorry for cussing again.” I heard the glove box click closed and figured the Holy Spirit tucked my gun inside. “Let’s get some air,” the Holy Spirit said. He walked around to the driver’s side and opened my door. Tucking my arm in His, He led the way down the lamp lit riverwalk path. He said nothing and the longer we walked, I realized the ridiculousness of it all—my earlier expletives and subsequent apologies to Him. How stupid, considering I was contemplating ending my life. My shoulders drooped a bit more.

The Holy Spirit stopped and leaned against the railing. He didn’t break His gaze on the water, but asked, “Why do you wish for death?”

Hearing that combination of words from His lips made me wince. Why did I? Mine and Jerimiah’s repeat argument was nothing convoluted—I had no doubt many married couples argued about the same issue.

I took a deep breath. “Because dealing with this conflict is too hard. We can’t seem to get past it. And when we argue I feel terribly alone and unlovable.”

“You think Jerimiah doesn’t love you anymore?” The Holy Spirit asked.

“No,” I said. I struggled to put my feelings into words. “I feel like I am unworthy of love. When we’re in the heat of an argument, I feel stupid, useless, and like I don’t deserve to be loved.” Hearing my confession made me wince.

The Holy Spirit’s deep voice cut through my pain. “Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock. And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell, and great was the fall of it. (Matthew 7:24-27)”

“What exactly are You trying to say?” The full realization of His words hit me and I rushed to speak again. “Wait—are You calling me a fool?”

The Holy Spirit reached for my phone. “You are no fool—” He said as He opened my Instagram feed and scrolled to a series of pictures. His eyes met mine before He handed my phone back. “—but you’ve been acting like one.”

As soon as my eyes dropped to the pictures, my breath caught in my throat. They were images I’d immortalized less than two months ago at my grandfather’s funeral. The night before heading down to Florida to be with my family, Jerimiah and I had fought hard. In the aftermath, I had laid in our guest bed, stared up at the popcorn ceiling and wished for death. We managed to put a band aid on things before I left, but I’d made the trip down oozing with my misery.

Though they knew nothing of my pain, my precious family opened my eyes to the truth. We spent the time before Grandpop’s funeral crying through old pictures and sharing stories. On the day of his funeral, I watched my grandmom and aunts stand in the aisle and weep as they stared at the face they would never again see in real life. Grandmom couldn’t seem to make herself stop touching his hands, and I will never forget the tender kisses she placed on his cold forehead.

Grandpop was 92 years old when he passed away, but the grief I’d witnessed was as sharp as losing someone in the prime of their life. Being a part of such visceral moments caused me to become stricken with horror over what I’d considered. My grandpop’s funeral became a snapshot of my own. It had forced me to step out of myself and experience what those who love me would feel if I acted on my pain.

“You’re right.” I said. “I have been acting like a fool. But—” My eyes filled with fresh tears. “—I don’t know how to stop.” I mumbled, “I don’t know if I can.”

“No human was meant to be your foundation. You cannot continue to find your identity and worth in Jerimiah. You’ve already been living that way and your house is nearly destroyed.” He paused and turned me to face Him. “Hear what I’m saying to you and do it. Then, when the conflict comes, the force of it will not move you because you are founded on Me.” His eyes searched mine. “When you’re angry and hopeless, cast your burdens on Me and I will sustain you (Psalm 55:22). When you don’t know how to move forward, ask Me for wisdom. I give generously to all without reproach (James 1:5). Come to Me when your heart is breaking and know that I am near you, I will deliver you, and I will give you rest. (Psalm 34:18 & Matthew 11:28-30). If you’ll ask believing I’ll do what I said, then I’ll be able to do what I do best.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Make good on My promises (1 Corinthians 1:9, Joshua 21:45, & Joshua 23:14).” He put His arm around my shoulders and I rested my head on Him. As I did, I noticed that the edges of the dawn were reflected on the glassy river and Isaiah 26:3-4 came to my mind. You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you. Trust in the LORD forever, for the LORD GOD is an everlasting rock.

An aside: The above conversation between me and the Holy Spirit is a summary of nearly a year of my life. Translation: I did not get to a healthy place overnight. This blog is not meant to suggest that anyone dealing with suicidal thoughts should go it alone. I reached out to my spiritual mentor and underwent counseling. If you, dear reader, are struggling with suicidal thoughts, I implore you to reach out and get help. You are not alone. You are loved.

National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 800-273-8255

It began long ago, when Jerimiah was still on staff at The Rock. Having a very analytical mind, he began to ask the hard questions about God and the Bible. He claimed to have searched the Bible and found more contradictions than answers. So, he surreptitiously asked his colleagues. But to Jerimiah, their answers seemed more like excuses for God. God was apparently silent on the issues and Jerimiah entered into a time of great fear. He wouldn’t tell me much about his struggles because he said he didn’t want to mess up my walk with God. But he wrestled. And he thought.

As the years went on, his tone changed. He didn’t want to reveal his true thoughts to me because he feared my reaction to what he had become.

An atheist.

He’s made it through fear and come out on the other side. He is happy with his enlightenment. He is happy he’s no longer “delusional” and no longer believing in an all-powerful and loving Creator that doesn’t actually exist. Because if the all-powerful and loving Creator actually existed like the one he says the Bible describes, that being would be a terrible being.

And here we are. It’s so simple to write, yet I still grieve over the ramifications. The fellowship once comprised of God, Jerimiah, and Beth has been broken. Epic Ecclesiastes 4:12 fail.

This was a verse Jerimiah once believed, seemingly with his whole heart. Our promises at the alter were not just to each other. They were heard, sealed, and cemented by God. It was a given that we would raise our future children in such a way that they would hopefully come to know and love God—to actively take hold of Him. Our new reality is that Jerimiah and I find ourselves at powerful odds about something that was once a fundamental part of our marriage. Mine and Jerimiah’s “spiritual” desires for our two daughters are in violent opposition.

In my grief, I wondered what life might be like if I went the way of Jerimiah, to move on together without God. At first it felt earthy and bright—blissfully free of conflict and discord. Our family belted out the Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack while cruising in our station wagon on the way to one of many weekend adventures involving backpacking amid the redwoods, forest fairy sightings, and daring narwhal rescues. But as soon as clouds passed overhead, my reverie shattered and I was chilled by a horrific emptiness.

Something within me changed during the years I spent with God writing Let Me Fall. I believe God and I laughed over cups of Chai tea. I believe we danced in the moonlight. I believe His arms held me when I could not hold the pieces of me together. I can’t prove any of it, but it doesn’t change the fact that I was altered on a soul level. I nearly doubled over because of the depth of sorrow and agony my betrayal would cause God.

I couldn’t do it. Not after He gave up heaven to rescue me.

As the pain of my new reality set in, I wanted to give up at life—to collapse at the base of the mountain I recently descended with the Holy Spirit while writing Let Me Fall and there remain until the woodland foliage had made a bittersweet monument of me. Sonnets would be written about the once great love of Jerimiah, Beth, and God, and the tragic ending of their tale. But just as I was gently humming the melancholy tune I’d created, I heard a rustle. I brushed off the forest debris, looked up, and saw the Holy Spirit leaning on a splintered cross with my name on it. And I knew.

“If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” Matthew 16:24-25

I lifted my hand, the Holy Spirit clasped it in His and pulled me to my feet.

“He still loves you. Remember?” said the Holy Spirit.

“Who, God?” I asked.

“Well of course, but that’s not who I was talking about.” His warm hand still enveloped mine and He reached His other to pick the remaining leaves out of my tangled mane. “Throughout this difficult journey, Jerimiah has consistently reminded you of his love for you, his love for your daughters, and the fact that he will not give up on his marriage or his family no matter how difficult the divide causes your lives to become. Many things about him have changed, but some never will.”

I nodded my head but the tears still pooled and spilled down my cheeks. When I finally found my voice, I asked, “What’s going to happen now?”

The Holy Spirit studied me for a moment and asked, “Do you trust me?”

I inhaled and mulled over His question. Did I? One of the things I had admired most about the Jerimiah of my youth was his unapologetic relationship with God. The reason Jerimiah and I got married when he was 20 and I was 18 is because we felt it was what God wanted. If God is truly omniscient, He had to have seen Jerimiah’s atheism coming. So why in the world was our marriage “allowed?” My face was getting hot and I dropped His hand. I thought about Ava and Elle and the depth of my desire for them to come to know and love God. Not only am I completely alone in desperately wanting something for them, that opposition is hostile. I felt my chest tighten even more than usual—the constant weight of their eternity pressed on me coupled with the dread of going head-to-head with Jerimiah. “I—I don’t really want to answer that right now,” I said.

“Go ahead and ask me your question,” He said.

I felt like shouting it, but my question came out in a soft growl. “Why?”

“A war has been raging since the dawn of humanity and you’re in the thick of it. If you won’t learn the discipline of a prayer warrior and actually engage in battle, those you love might be lost.” His tone was gentle when He said, “Don’t confuse the darkness of your current state with my plans. This is the battle meant for you. From the day you and Jerimiah were born, to the August day in 1994 when he sat by you in Algebra, to the day each of your precious girls came into being, I’ve had a plan. And I’m not done.” He paused. “The darker the battle, the greater the opportunity for me to show who I am.”

I knew He was right. I thought back to the ending of Let Me Fall. I had figuratively descended a mountain with God. And what’s at the bottom of a mountain? The valley. It’s where life happens. It’s where the battles are won.

“Okay,” I said. “I trust You.” I’m not sure why, but I expected Him to be sarcastic and tell me that it’s about time. Instead, He simply said, “Good,” and His gentle hands helped me shoulder my cross.

Trust in the LORD, and do good; dwell in the land and befriend faithfulness. Delight yourself in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart. Psalm 37:3-4

And you shall know that I am the LORD, when I open your graves, and raise you from your graves, O my people. And I will put my Spirit within you, and you shall live, and I will place you in your own land. Then you shall know that I am the LORD; I have spoken, and I will do it, declares the LORD. Ezekiel 37:13-14

We sat across from each other on C3’s green velvet couch and caught up like the old friends that we are. I met Hannah when my husband and I moved to South Carolina in 2002 to work at the church her dad pastored. She was in college and dating her now husband, Kevin. I’d been so intimidated by her beauty and charisma that our friendship snuck up on me. And eventually–even after I clogged up their toilet and accidentally dropped the f-bomb in front of them–her family became like our family.

Remembering I only had a long lunch break, I grabbed a swig of water and asked the question which would lead to the story I wasn’t yet ready to revisit. “I obviously know what happened, but my first question is–from your mouth–what is your tragedy? What has happened to you?”

“So, most of this you might know, but I’ll recount. The very first of October 2013, I felt like the Lord spoke to me and told me my life was going to change. I didn’t really understand, but just leaned in because I was curious. It wasn’t audible, but I told Kevin it felt like a coat of dread. Normally, I can pray through that or check my fear at the door. But this was different. I sorta tried to manipulate the situation, like,” Her pitch rises in jest. “Oh my gosh, this isn’t a coat of dread–I’m going to win the lottery! I don’t play the lottery, but somebody’s going to give me a million dollars–that’s how my life’s going to change. But it became stronger every day. To the point that I begged Kevin not to go to school the last few days of October because I kept thinking, ‘Maybe Kevin’s going to be gone, and if he’s going to be gone, I just want him to stay here.’ He was like, ‘You’re stupid.'” My laugh caught me off guard and she continued to recount her husband’s words to her. “‘If I’m going to die, I’m going to die just sitting here. This is dumb.’ And I told him, ‘It’s not dumb to me!’ But he went to work and I went to work.”

She leaned back and draped her arm across the couch. “And on October 30, my dad called me in his office. I didn’t know what he was going to say but the moment he said, ‘Hey come in here for a second,’ I knew that was it. I didn’t even know it would be about him honestly. He sat me down and told me he had lung cancer. I told him I would pray for a miracle and he said, ‘Don’t.’ I was like, ‘What?! I’m praying for a miracle–you can’t tell me what to do!’ He said ‘No, don’t pray for a miracle. Pray that God’s will is done.’ And I kept thinking, ‘I don’t want to pray that. No.’”

“My dad’s mental state the entire time was exactly what he preaches—’when God’s done with me, then God’s going take me. And that’s when I want to go.’ Because honestly, he should have died at 19-years-old and I shouldn’t be here.” She made reference to her dad’s bout with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma at age nineteen and the fact he was told he would never have children.

“He went through all that before, which I know, changes a person. Anyway, it was a very small spot. His oncologist really wasn’t worried about it and told him he could probably go for a long time without any chemo. But that’s not really my dad’s nature–he wants to wrestle beasts and punch them in their faces.” I nodded at the truth she spoke. “So, he started chemo, some experimental treatments, and all-natural stuff. Everything looked good. One of the byproducts of lung cancer and chemo and all those things is fluid buildup, so every once and a while, he would go to his lung doctor to drain the fluid. It wasn’t a huge deal.”

“I think it was May 17th–my mom’s so much better with dates–but it was a Sunday morning and Matt was preaching. I couldn’t help but comment, ‘That’s odd’, and Matt’s response was, ‘Yeah, your dad asked me.’ My mom walked in the door and I said, ‘Where’s Daddy? Is he not feeling good?’ She said, ‘Well, he went to the hospital last night.’ And I said, ‘What?!‘ She told me he was just having trouble breathing. But for my dad to go, obviously he needed to go. I texted my dad and said, ‘On a scale of 1 to 10, what should my worry be?’ And he, of course responded, ‘Zero,’ because he doesn’t believe in worry. We were going out of town that day, so I asked if he wanted me to stay. He said, ‘Absolutely not. They’ll drain the fluid, no big deal.’ So, I went to the upstate–I don’t even remember what I was doing. A few days later, I was driving down the interstate when I got a panicky call from my sister-in-law asking if I’d talked to my mom. She said he might not make it. And I was like, ‘What are you talking about? What?!‘

Hannah started to recount her mom’s calmness while telling her that her dad was in surgery, but she was sidetracked by another thought. “I know we’re talking about God being good, but there are so many things in the story that point back–” She trailed off. “I don’t know. Things I’m thankful for that we just needed. Like that day, my mom was going stop by the store and she just decided not to. She walked in my dad’s room at the right time and saw him look like something wasn’t right, so she was able to get the doctor and they took him straight back to figure out how much fluid was in his abdomen. And during that time, Dr. Sasser–who was done with his shift and in the parking lot–said he got in his car and felt led by the Spirit to go back in and check.” I interrupted to make sure she was talking about Paul Sasser–her dad’s friend since their Wofford College days–and not Paul’s father, who is also a doctor. “Uh-huh. Paul went back in and asked, ‘You guys okay?’ And the nurses said, ‘Yeah, you just left.’ He looked over and saw a commotion. He picked up the chart and read Robert Childs and he thought, Oh, it’s Kevin Childs’ dad. But then he walked over to the commotion and saw it was my dad–who happens to have the same first name as my granddaddy.” So, he picked his nurses and went right into surgery. Paul would tell you, ‘I really thought he wouldn’t make it.’ And honestly, if he wouldn’t have gotten back out of his car, Dad probably wouldn’t have.”

Her words sank in, and I longed for them to be the triumphant conclusion of her story. But I knew better. She continued, “So anyway, they saved him and I got home. He got better, so was he moved down a floor, which was really cool because my mom went back to school for a while and I just hung out with him. I would doodle Scriptures and put Scripture on the wall for him to look at. And pray. I’d just sit on my computer and type and pray and journal through things I was feeling. And my sister Evan came down. It was cool because she’s been away for so long and there was something special about having her with me because she’s my partner.”

“During that time, it turned out my dad was getting oxygen in but not the carbon dioxide out. He was basically making himself high, which is what he was acting like, so they moved him back up to ICU. From that point on, it was crazy. In the ICU, you never rest. You’re a phone call away or you’re sleeping in the waiting room waiting for that one person to open the door. Dad’s doctors were great but they basically said, ‘We don’t know what else to do here.’ He loves–he loved his doctors.” It wasn’t the first time she’d referred to her dad in the present, but it was the first time she corrected herself and a wave of grief washed over me.

“We made the executive decision to go to Duke. When we got to Duke, they talked to us about what rehab looked like with him and without him in the room.” I interrupted for clarification. “So almost thinking as if…” Hannah finished my sentence by saying, “Like he was coming home. He would have a different way of life. Selfishly, I was thinking, he’s going to hate this. My dad is a man’s man. To have somebody who has to help him get up, and be on oxygen, and check in on him from the hospital… I think from that point–when he got to Duke and they started talking about that stuff–I told my mom I wouldn’t be surprised if he was praying the opposite of us. And I started seeing it, sort of, in his mannerisms as time went on. He wanted to watch sports and then he’d say, ‘No, just leave the TV off.’ He was just kind of being more still; being quieter.” Hannah grew quiet.

“One day we were on an upward swing, and he did a swallow test while we were all in the room. He ate a bite of apple sauce and drank some water, and then I went in the bathroom. When I came back out, someone had pushed the code blue button. I looked over and–it’s the craziest thing but—there were around twenty-five people in the room like–” She snapped her fingers. “–in a second. My mom looked panicked and my sister was saying, ‘What is going on?!’ So, they put us in the bathroom. I don’t know why they didn’t take us out of the room–that would’ve been really great. My sister stepped into the bathroom and literally collapsed. I caught her head before she hit the sink. After I slapped my sister in the face, telling her she will wake up, that she will not be asleep during this, all we could hear was the table where they were doing compressions and the nurse recounting. You would think it would be like, ‘What are we doing?! Get this, get that!’ But the room was dead silent and all we could hear were the compressions. And then the head doctor said, ‘Pulse check.’ We waited a few seconds and then we heard, ‘No pulse.’ And then they just continued doing CPR. It was like the twilight zone. It’s the only way I can describe it. He was gone for about fifteen minutes. And I don’t know if we prayed him back–he was probably angry for praying him back.” A little laugh-cry escaped my lips at her commentary. “But they said, ‘We have a pulse.’ So, everyone was like–” Hannah let out a huge breath by way of demonstration. “And in God’s providence, Dirk was already on his way, so we literally walked out of the room and we had his strong arms to hold us while we cried.” Hannah referred to her dad’s best friend since the seventh grade, Dirk Derrick.

“By the way, Dirk was such a gift during that time. It was awesome because he got to be in the meetings with the doctors, who decided, basically, to sort of freeze dad’s body because they didn’t know how much brain function he still had. From there, I don’t think he ever really spoke again. He mouthed words, which was funny because we would play games to try to figure out who could figure out what he was saying. And he would eye roll a lot.” I could picture him doing that so clearly, a laugh choked my emerging sob. Hannah continued. “But the brain-freezing thing totally worked because my sister would come in and she’d say, ‘Daddy, do you know who I am?’ And he’d be like,” She shook her head no. “And then Haddon would walk in and he’d say, ‘Hey Haddon.’ Not even dying for fifteen minutes can take away my dad’s sarcasm. Which is pretty miraculous if you think about it.” I laughed hard.

“It was insane. But it’s like you’re playing catch up the entire time you’re in ICU. One thing may be great, but everything else is bad. During that time his kidneys would not regain function, so they put him on dialysis to kick-start them. Then they noticed his heart was getting weaker. My dad’s heart has been through the ringer.” Hannah referred again to his battle with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma at age nineteen and subsequent treatment. “His vessels were fried from radiation, and then he had all these stints. You could just pal–” We struggled with the pronunciation of the word ‘palpably,’ and since neither of us could get it right, Hannah improvised. “You could tell he was working hard. And tired. One day the doctor came in, and it was a doctor that we didn’t love. He had just finished talking to my mom and came and sat beside me. I kept thinking, ‘Why are you sitting beside me?’ And he said, ‘I don’t think we have much longer.’ And I said, ‘Like for a cure?’ For? In my mind, I felt like Dad was tired. So I said ‘… Okay.’ I walked down the hallway praying and I said, ‘Lord, what does that mean? Why would he have said that if he didn’t mean…?’ My mom found me and asked, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I told her, ‘Nothing.’ And she said, ‘You’re lying.’ I told her what the doctor said, but then we couldn’t find him to ask questions. So I called my brothers and Dirk and I said, ‘Um, I think you guys should drive up here today.’ And they all did.”

I did my best to brace my heart for what was coming as Hannah continued. “Basically, they told us that whatever infection he had, his body was too weak to fight it off. The nurse was so awesome that day. And I told her, ‘I need to know exactly what is going to go down because you hear horror stories.’ I wanted to mentally prepare, because I am ultra into mentally preparing to handle things. She said, ‘Once his heart gets to a point where it can’t beat, his heart will literally just stop beating and he will be asleep. He’ll be able to hear you from then.’ I don’t think they had him sedated on anything the entire time. They’d ask him if he was in pain. And he would just say, ‘No.’ The entire time,

‘Daddy are you ok?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You worried?’

‘No.’

‘You feel good?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did you see angels when you died for 15 min?’

‘NO.’

I laugh-cried again. “They came and got us probably about midnight. We were sleeping in the lobby and had left my mom in there with her sister so she could curl up and be with him and be by herself. They called us back there and just said, ‘We think we’re getting close and we want you guys to all be in here together.’ We all just got to stand around his bed with Dirk on the outside praying and emotional out of his deep friendship and love for my dad. Each of us got to pray and then just gave testimony to his life–” Her voice became soft and trembled as tears pooled in her eyes. “–and just thank God for what he’s been in our lives. It was–if you could picture the most beautiful way–then that was it. My mom came around the other side and she leaned down and whispered something in his ear and then his heart stopped beating. It was just–it was terribly perfect.” The way Hannah said it, it was almost a question. “I don’t know if that’s a good word to describe it.” Her face cleared at her next thought and she smiled. “And still with my family–because you know my family–there’s always a hint of sarcasm or laughter. So, during that entire time somebody would accidentally peel off his heart monitor and all of us are like,” She shot me a look of dread that explained their horror. “And then like, ‘So sorry, it was me.’ And they’d fix the device and the nurse would say, ‘Nope, he’s still here.'” I’d started giggling and couldn’t stop because I could picture the scene. Hannah continued. “Afterwards they got the creepy doctor and we were all thinking, ‘Oh my gosh, the creepy doctor!’ He walked in and did whatever doctors have to do and stepped back. And he, in The Sound of Music nun-posture, said, ‘I regret to inform you … Mr. Childs … is dead.’ I was like, ‘Is this a movie?! Can you go back to school and learn something?!’ But all of us looked at each other and basically laughed. It was comedic relief in the moment because it was just strange.” I asked her for clarification on the date of his passing. “It was July 10, 2014.”

“But those are all the stories, in a quick version. Which was not very quick.” I thanked her and moved on to the question I’d been mulling over since late last year. “So how–and I’m not interested in the why–but how, after everything you went through in that entire process, how can you personally still say that God is good?”

“Well I think it um–” She paused. “I think it starts before. I think that God knows me well enough to know that I have to mentally prepare, like I said. And so even in October with that cloak of dread, it was almost like he was preparing me mentally. I spent more time digging in and alone with him and asking him, ‘What is this?’ I think every step along the way, God prepared me or he gave me space to, not prepare me, but take care of me. So, in the weirdest way, I was taken care of through it. And he didn’t have to do that, obviously. I don’t know how to describe it because some of it is not tangible. I journaled about this the other day just because I read it again–I kept going back to the story of Jesus praying to change it when he was fixing to go to the cross. Change, change, change. The entire thing, the devo that day was that God is still good even though Jesus had to endure the cross. When you trust that God loves you–which is why Jesus was okay, because of anybody, he knew the love of the Father. So, when you trust the love of the Father–like truly trust the love of the Father–then you receive things differently from him. Like, when somebody comes to you and tells you something and you know they love you, it’s different than some Joe Schmoe just coming in. And so, I knew who God was in theory, but it was still like he was Joe Schmoe. But I think when you lean into him as a father–and sometimes I think tragedy is honestly the only way to get there–tragedy is the only road to understand his love for us.” Her statement came out as more of a question. “And if you believe that and walk it out, you see how he’s so good over so many things. And the small details that, just collectively, like really? You’re freakin’ good. How in the world? And then you understand his love, and out of that love, you just trust. Then instead of saying, ‘You took my dad from me.’ You can say, ‘You’re so good, look at the dad you gave me.’ Or, ‘You made us endure all this.’ Instead, ‘Look how much time I got alone with him.’ I don’t know.” She shrugged. “You just see things differently.”

She thought for a moment and then made reference to the man who has filled in her father’s place as pastor, Josh Finklea. “The verse Josh preached about when you go through tragedy and there’s perseverance, that perseverance produces character, and character produces hope. I was like, ‘Yes!’ Some days I had to wake up and say, ‘God is good–I’m going to say it. And God loves me.’ Some of those things are just things my dad instilled in me. Truths that my dad not only just said to me but lived out until his last breath. Like really basic, simple things to get me through. But that verse about character & hope–” She trailed off. “I don’t even feel like the same person. And then understanding the love of the Father, I feel, has changed my character in such a way that I have love for other people. I’ve always loved people, but a genuine love for people like God has for me. And that, literally, changes your entire life. Megan said the other day–” She mentioned her best friend, Megan Bayliff, who has walked through recent pain and grief. “–She said, ‘You know, tragedy’s almost a gift in the weirdest way.’ And I couldn’t help but agree and say, ‘That is so true.’ It really is. Because without that gift, I don’t think I’d ever have known God’s love or experienced God’s love. And without that, I could never turn around and give God’s love like I give God’s love. And out of that love and that character change–because to me the biggest character change for God is love. To turn around and give that, especially being in ministry, it changes everything.”

The gentle hum of coffee preparation and conversation filled the air as I absorbed her words. Hannah’s marked my fourth interview, yet I knew the last question would still spill out of my mouth as a disjointed mess. “What would you say to someone who would say, ‘If God is a good God–with as many people as were praying for your dad, with knowing what kind of Godly man he was–if God was truly a good God, why would he allow your dad to die?’”

She nodded her understanding. “I’ve actually thought about this so many times. And it’s been one thing I’ve had to really walk out with the Lord. The conclusion that I’ve come to with the Lord’s help–and it’s personal for me so somebody else might think, ‘That’s a stupid answer.'” I interrupted. “Dude. There is no stupid answer.” She smiled by way of thanks. “Okay. I think that when sin entered into the world, we opened ourselves up to all of these things. Through Scripture I see that God doesn’t necessarily send cancer. I think our lives and our sin patterns on earth and the things that we have evolved into–we’re a selfish and a fast society. Whatever you want to attribute it to. But I really feel like it starts with the fall. And that God was good. He created it perfectly where we never had to die. We never had to experience tragedy. And then sin came into the world and screwed everything up. God’s first intention was to make life perfect for us. We just screw it up a lot. And for some reason that brought me comfort, to know that God wasn’t like, ‘Well who am I going to pick to have cancer? I’m going to pick him!'” She points. “I don’t think it happens like that. I think this world is just awful. It’s earth, and we glorify it and we think it’s the best thing ever. And we have glimpses of joy and we love our kids and we love our husbands. And we love people and we love what the Lord’s doing and stuff, but it’s not what God intended. Heaven is the version of what God intended. And one day we’ll receive that. But here on earth, I feel like you almost have to brace yourself that these things happen. Like, I’m gonna die. And I feel like people try to ignore it a little bit. I might bury my kids. I might bury my husband. I don’t know, but that’s the way it works. And not because of who God is, but because of who we are and the things that we’ve allowed. And I don’t know why, but that brings me comfort just to know that it’s not in God’s character, it’s in our character. After my dad died, I read a lot about heaven. One of my favorite quotes is that we’re so close-minded and thinking of it as a distant land. But it’s so close to us. The author’s example was, if you were going to move somewhere one day, like if you were moving to Australia in a week. Or a day. How prepared would you want to be for Australia? You would want to know who’s there, what’s there, how’s it going to be? And he said so much of our life is so focused on earth and just surviving and living. And it’s not on the spiritual side of things. People don’t prepare, they don’t think about it. He said but when you have somebody there, it becomes very real. It’s almost like you put on these glasses and there’s a different depth to life. It’s almost like, relationally, when you go through something that bonds you together tighter. Or makes you lean in more. So, after going through tragedy and having the glasses on, you see things differently.”

She asked me to remind her of the last part of my horrifically worded question. I said, “If God was a good God then why would he allow …” Hannah nodded and said, “It took me months to process and work through that. It is something that I don’t know we’ll ever understand. Because I really have tried to sink into it. The idea that he has a bird’s-eye view and we have a miniscule view. There are certain things where you just have to have faith and trust that he knows what he’s doing. I read through the story of Job and the things that he allowed to happen to Job–trying to pick it apart. Megan and I went through David and the things that he allowed David to go through. But he loved David. David was a man after his own heart. I picked apart the Bible–to pieces. Every person who really did so much for God–who’s recorded in the Bible–went through a lot of crap. Everyone in the Bible who is a hero, or is in Hebrews in the faithful hall of fame, or mentioned as being used for God’s glory all go through sucky things that God allowed to happen. But in God’s goodness, he takes those sucky things and he’s still changing lives through it. So, I do think he allows it. But I think it’s having faith and trust that he can still bring about good even though he allowed this.”

She tucked her legs under her. “I remember reading in Proverbs about him collecting tears. Just the picture that describes of who God is–every tear I’ve ever shed over my dad, he’s counted. The idea that he wants to be near enough to me to count my tears, that proves God’s goodness to me. So that verse is such comfort. And I talked about understanding God, but even the idea of Jesus is different to me. And the idea of the Holy Spirit is different. I know you’ve walked with the Holy Spirit differently. You know. But understanding the Spirit. Like how good he is even just to have given us the Holy Spirit blows my mind. When he says in John, hey, I have to go but it’s really good for me to go to the Father because I’m going to send you something so much better. Wrapping your mind around the fact that we get to carry that around with us all the time. And the fact that he gives us the Spirit, to me, even proves his goodness. Who but the Spirit could make you feel okay after you feel like the rug is ripped from underneath you? Who but the Spirit? Out of that same verse, the perseverance and the character and the hope,” She paused. “Out of the hope that only the Spirit provides, I believe, if you allow him to change your character–out of that, you do experience God’s goodness on a whole other level. I’ve had opportunities to talk to people and walk them through tragedy. I’ve had so many conversations with people I don’t even know, and I always encourage them to just really lean in. Don’t lean out. And when you lean into the gifting–” She interrupted herself and laughed a little. “–that’s so bizarrely named–of tragedy and you allow him to work on your character during it, then you come out with a hope that cannot be taken. So, the rug gets pulled out, but the hope doesn’t leave. The rug gets pulled out, but the peace is so beyond what you could gather up for yourself if you tried. I remember reading the story about the fisherman fishing and it was such a visual picture of trying to get it all for myself and Jesus is saying, ‘No, if you’ll just do it my way–go on the other side of the boat and just cast your net again.’ The boatload you get– it just doesn’t compare. It breaks my heart because I feel like I’ve seen some others lean out after tragedy and gather on their own. They’re like, scraping little bones. And I’m over here dumping fish loads of hope on top of me. So that’s why I always tell them to lean in. Lean in and trust in his love and let him work on your character, because it is a working. And on the other side of it, you’re a whole other individual–I don’t even remember who I was three years ago. And then experience all the things that he promises. And mounds and mounds of fish.”

Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us. Romans 5:3-5

***

Hannah is the KidzRock Pastor and deals with all things creative at The Rock Church. She and her husband Kevin have three children: Gray, Crew, and Navy. According to her, they live in Conway, SC; the town you pass through on your way to the beach. In her spare time she teaches hand lettering classes to raise money for her friends wanting to adopt again, and you can follow @thehannahgray on Instagram to learn more.

It was Thanksgiving and we’d invited ourselves to celebrate it with my Dad’s side of the family in northern Virginia. Laughter, hugs, and the steady hum of conversation filled the house as my family began to trickle in. Last to arrive was my cousin Jana, her husband Antonio, and their fifteen-month-old son Dominic. The moment Jana laid eyes on me, she burst into tears, said, “I can’t do this right now!” and ran upstairs. Confused and concerned, my cousin and I were sent up to comfort her. And there in our aunt’s bathroom, bits and pieces of Jana’s story gushed out. But for Jana, the worst was yet to come.

Seven months later, we met in our pj’s over FaceTime so she could give me the full story. After I’d marveled at how good she managed to look at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning and we caught up for a few minutes, I started with my first question. “I obviously already know a lot, but fill me in on any gaps I’m missing and tell me what happened.”

“Oh boy. I haven’t talked about it in so long. I’ll tell you about it from the beginning. We found out we were pregnant and we were excited. But then, I don’t know … God really started telling me that things just weren’t going to happen the way we thought they were. We would go to church, and every time we would go to church, everything was about miscarriage and loss. I mean everything. So we went to church the Sunday before Thanksgiving and the woman speaking–who is now actually one of my good friends–has infertility and she was talking about loss. I squeezed Antonio’s hand because I knew that was God telling me it just wasn’t going to happen. I went home and that night before I went to bed, I prayed–” Her voice broke as she started crying and she apologized.

“Sorry. With July coming it’s just making it really hard.” She bowed her head while attempting to regain control. “I prayed God was wrong. I was like, ‘You’re wrong. Please be wrong.’ I woke up the next day for the appointment, and I just knew– I wasn’t excited. I was really scared to go. We went and, sure enough, she said, ‘Things just look too small right now.’ But I could tell– I could tell by the look on her face. I knew what I was seeing on the screen from Dominic and it just wasn’t normal. We had to wait a week before my next appointment so I went to work the next day. I started bleeding at work so I went home. We went to the doctor the next day and learned I was actually passing blood clots that had nothing to do with the miscarriage. Absolutely nothing. But that is when she told me, ‘You will most likely lose this baby.’ We saw the heartbeat. It was so faint. I feel like it was God–” Her voice faltered. “–giving me that moment to see it. To know it was real. To know it wasn’t something that was just made up. And it gave me a moment to say, okay, we are going to name this child. So that was my goal. We went home and I was in positive spirits. I was like, well God is in control, not the doctors. She could be wrong. God makes miracles. You just never know, so …” She trailed off. “We prayed, I ate a lot. I thought maybe if I ate more food, the baby would grow. And then the next day was Thanksgiving. That morning I woke up and said, ‘We’re naming the baby.’ So I looked for names that were strong and unisex. I found the name Caden, and Caden means fighter. And the middle name is Day, and Day means hope & light. And of course we came over, which I’m very thankful we did because I needed that.” She flashed me a sad smile in reference to what happened last Thanksgiving day.

“The next day was Antonio’s birthday. I wanted to get out of the house–I didn’t want to ruin his birthday. We went to the Air & Space Museum. And I’ve never felt so small–” Her voice cracked at the end of the word. “Every time I would have to go to the bathroom– “Her pitch rose as she struggled to push the words past her tears. “I thought, I don’t want to lose my baby in a public bathroom. So I just said, ‘We need to leave. I’m done.’ I couldn’t stand to see people with babies or multiple kids. That evening as we were giving Dominic a bath, I had to go to the bathroom. For some reason, I went right there and I passed it. I didn’t know what else to do. I said, ‘I can’t flush it,’ so we dug it out. I just looked at it and I cried. Then I went numb and didn’t want to talk about it.”

I apologized for crying and we laughed a little as I composed myself enough to ask my second question. “Okay. I only have two more questions. And you tell me if it’s too soon after, but I feel like maybe it’s not. My second question is not why, but how can you still say that God is good?”

Her response was swift. “It took me a little while. People would send me verses and stuff. I told them, ‘Please don’t send me anything. I don’t want to read anything. I know he’s still there.’ And I knew I had a road to choose: choosing God or choosing the other way. I’ve chosen the other way for a long time in my life, like when I was kicked out of church. So at that moment in time, I knew I had a choice to make, but I still wasn’t ready to talk to him. We didn’t go to church the first Sunday after, but a few weeks later I said, ‘Okay, it’s time to go back.’ I remember pulling into the parking lot and I had the biggest knot in my throat, like, I don’t know if I’m ready for this. But we went. There was one song, I can’t remember what it was, but it was saying, ‘I love you Jesus–‘” Her face crumpled. “–and I couldn’t sing it. I just stood there and cried. In my mind I was thinking, I do love you. I’m just really hurt right now.”

She cried for long moments and then wiped her eyes. “But as time went on, I was ready to talk to him again. About a month later, my pastor who married us came down and Mr. Doug just talked to me and said, ‘Your crying is good. Those are your tears of prayer.’ So I wouldn’t even talk, I would just close my eyes and cry knowing that God was listening. I kept seeing this verse and I have it right here.” She opened her Bible and read me 2 Corinthians 12:9. “‘But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” When she looked back up at me, I noticed a confident depth in her gaze. “It was shown to me over and over, that in my weakness he was still there. And, I don’t know, I just really trusted then. I feel like my faith grew stronger in that. God has never left my side and that I do know for a fact. I will praise him every single day, no matter what. This, then just became my story. There was nothing I could do with what happened. It brought Antonio and me closer–the way we are now is so much better.”

“I realized that as long as we’d been trying I had been so focused on this child I was neglecting the blessing I already had. The way I look at Dominic–not like I didn’t look at him that way before, but now it’s just even more like, ‘Thank you God for this gift that you did bless me with!’ I mean he’s amazing.” She paused to collect her thoughts. “Like I said from the beginning, I had a choice: to go my own way or follow God. And I chose to follow God because he never left me when I was at my worst. He was there for me every single time, so what would make me turn my back on him because this bad thing happened? I couldn’t do that.

“Okay,” I said. “Last question, and it’s a hard one. What would you say to someone if they said to you, ‘If God was a good God, why would he allow that to happen to you?'”

“Mmmm. That is a hard question. What would I say? I would say– Man.” She looked away and stared into the distance. ” It was hard to grasp the why. We will never be given that why and I learned it’s not a why. It’s a, ‘what if?’ What if something worse happened? I’ve done a lot in my past–a lot of bad things in my past. One being I should have gone to jail, and I didn’t. And God blessed me with that. I don’t know. God is good no matter what. We go through things and it sucks, life sucks. But it is what it is. God didn’t intentionally do this. If anything, God protected us and this baby. He knew that this baby, for whatever reason, wasn’t going to make it in the long run. Maybe there was something terminal it was going to have that we couldn’t handle. This was hard enough to handle, I can’t imagine handling anything more. What if we went far enough along that I had a stillbirth? Or what if I went far enough along that the child was really sick, born prematurely, and something happened? I think God actually protected us and this child from a lot of pain. Was this painful? Absolutely. But I think he knew I couldn’t handle more than this. So I don’t necessarily think it was an intentional bad thing he did. God is good no matter what. In bad times too. And I also think he gives us these bad times to really see …” She paused. “Not a test, but to see he’s still there in those times and in our weaknesses. He is still there. We can praise him when everything good happens, but all of the sudden if something bad happens, who are we to stop? It doesn’t make him not our God. He is still our God. So I would just say I’ve trusted him. And I know he took this baby for a reason. I will never understand why, but he did. As July approaches, yes it’s hard. But again, I know there’s a reason that I will never understand. I just feel–I don’t know–he rescued us from something that could’ve happened that would’ve been really bad. And that child is now in good hands. One day I was sitting at work and a flash came and it was–” Her tears interrupt. “–our baby being held by Grandma Ellis, and my heart overflowed with joy knowing that our baby was baby was being protected no matter what. And God can protect that baby more than me.

For the LORD is good and his love endures forever; his faithfulness continues through all generations. Psalm 100:5

***

Jana is a Rodan + Fields consultant. She, her husband Antonio, and their almost 2 year-old son, Dominic, live in northern Virginia. They are expecting again and are due in December 2017.

*If you’re new to my blog or the Good God series, welcome. Get caught up here.

I was nearly delirious by the time my fever reached 103.3. JP was gone for the weekend and I was terrified Ava would be left to fend for herself if I lost it. I texted Erin first, not just because she is one of my best friends, but because she would know what to do. She offered her advice and I managed talk her out of making the two hour drive to my house at eight on a Saturday night.

After I was on antibiotics and back in my right mind, I stewed over the blow sickness dealt. My work week was about to start over in a matter of hours and I had more of a mess in my house than when I’d started the weekend. I’d lost out on time with Ava–time that I’d been beyond excited about. And I felt strangely isolated and lonely. I guess minimal human contact will do that to you. I sensed a new level of respect for Erin rising to the surface and I couldn’t help but think about the last time she was at my house in March.

She knew my Good God series was in the works and had agreed to be my interviewee guinea pig. With Ava napping and JP at his shop for the afternoon, we hunkered down in my living room. Once I made sure my phone was recording, I said, “Of course I know this, but for the sake of the reader I must ask. What is your tragedy?”

Erin laughed and, without a hint of sarcasm said, “A friend once told me I had the gift of suffering. I said, ‘Well God can just take his gift back.'” She adjusted a pillow under her arm. “If I look back at my life, I don’t think there’s ever been a time I can truly say it was easy. It’s been a succession of tragedies, if that makes sense.”

It did, so I nodded.

She took a deep breath. “I was molested and raped when I was eight years old. That really broke something deep inside of me. Eight years-old is when you’re at an impressionable stage. My life went from there. I tried to find myself in all that and I kind of got lost. There’s low self-esteem, and I was below that.” She demonstrated with her hand. “By the time I was a teenager, I felt I was so ugly that I could not look at myself in the mirror.” She paused. “And then when I was eighteen, I got sick. I was diagnosed with Lupus on April 2. I remember the date because I thought someone was playing an April Fool’s joke on me, just a day late. What was supposed to be the best time of my life is when I was given a maximum of a ten-year life expectancy.” She flashed me a dimpled grin. “But no one’s going to tell me what I can and cannot do, so I went to college anyway. It took me six-and-a-half years to finish.”

I’m impressed by her grit. It would’ve taken far less for me to give up.

“When I was twenty-one, I was diagnosed with my second chronic illness, which was Fibromyalgia. I only lasted one year away at college and had to move back home. Had to take time off and regroup. So I enrolled at the community college and got into the nursing program. I was three semesters away from graduating as Valedictorian of my class as a RN when the Lupus flared up so severely I was hospitalized. They had no idea it was my gallbladder. By the time they did the surgery to remove it, I was so malnourished, my hair was falling out in clumps. Again, I had to quit. And then when I was twenty-five, I was diagnosed with my third chronic illness. Crohn’s. At that point, almost every organ in my body was inflamed.” She said, “I’ve been near death four different times. Doctors have told me they can do nothing more for me.”

I almost choked on a sudden surge of bitterness. She’s had to endure years of pain, isolation, and the shadow of death, but that might not be the worst of it. As I stared at the auburn-haired girl across the room from me, I realized she’s no longer a girl. She’s a thirty-three year-old woman with hopes and dreams that are yet to be fulfilled. They are the seemingly simple dreams of life: A home of her own. To be a wife. To be a mother. I could almost hear Mandy Moore’s voice as Rapunzel in Tangled singing, “When Will My Life Begin?”

I fumbled with the question which begged to be answered. “After experiencing the tragedies you’ve experienced your entire life, how can you still say that God is good?”

She gave me a sideways smile and said, “To be perfectly honest, I didn’t always think God was good. I got to the point where I almost threw out my Bible and walked away from God. I was just done.” She searched for words. “It was October 2008 and I’d just had to quit my job and move back in with my parents. Every organ in my body was inflamed. I can’t describe the level of pain that comes with that. I told God I was going to give him one more chance to prove to me he was a good God. He obviously didn’t care about me, so why should I care about him? I told him, ‘If you screw this up, it’s on you.'”

We both laughed at her blunt delivery and, even though I was recording her interview, I made her repeat herself so I could write it down.

“So many people want an immediate answer of either, ‘yes he is good,’ or ‘no he is not.’ For me, it’s been a gradual process. And I still have times when I have to pray and ask God to show me the good he’s doing in my life. He is answering that. Sometimes it’s in big ways and sometimes it’s in small ways, like me getting some random dessert I’ve been secretly craving but it’s not found anywhere close to where I live. Only God knew I was craving it.”

I smiled because I knew she was referring to the Godiva Chocolate Cheesecake she’d had when we were out the previous night. Had the line for Cold Stone not been so ridiculous after our movie, we would never have gone into the cafe at Barnes & Noble. And we would never have noticed her secretly-craved-mythical dessert on display.

“That, for me, is how he’s shown me he’s a good God. I’ve seen him in the bad. I’ve been curled up with such severe pain that I took the maximum strength of narcotics I could. It didn’t touch it. There was nothing I could do. I laid there in the middle of the night, sobbing and asking God to let me die. I’ve had multiple nights like that. But almost every time that’s happened, I have experienced the sweetest sense of peace. Like I could almost physically feel God wrap his arms around me. There was a comfort in my heart I cannot even describe, where the pain suddenly started to ease away. There’s no rational reason for it. And I would slip into the sweetest sleep I’d had in ages. I know it’s not a random thing that happened because I’ve experienced it multiple times.” She tucked her legs under her. “It’s in those moments that I know he does care. He does see me. He does hear what’s going on. It’s so easy when I’ve got all these problems to only see the enormity of what’s happening in my life. I forget to look to God. To look for God. I have to choose to find joy. I’m living a chronic life, so I have to choose to do these every day. That is how I know God is good–because he is present and active. When I’m looking for him, that’s when he’ll do something.”

Since hers was my first interview, I hadn’t yet perfected my last question. “What would you say to people–who don’t believe the same as you–that would say, ‘If God is truly good, why or how would he allow you to go through such great suffering when you so obviously love him?'”

Erin leaned back on the couch and said, “Hmmmmmm. It’s kind of a complicated thing.” She mentioned a blog post she recently posted titled, “Why Me?” “One night I was really frustrated and I asked God, ‘Why me?’ I heard this really quiet whisper, ‘Why not you?'”

I winced and muttered something unintelligible.

She laughed and said, “I did exactly what you did. But then it hit me–when sin entered the world, the world became broken. God gave us free will because he wants us to choose to have a relationship with him. He doesn’t want us to be in a relationship with him because we have no choice. If we’re going to have free will, it means life can’t be perfect. One of my favorite stories is in Daniel 3, when Shadrach, Meshach & Abednego are thrown into the furnace for choosing to believe in God and not worship the statue. There are several things I love about the story. One, it says they were tied up when they were thrown in. The furnace–the trial they were going through–burned off their chains and they were freed.”

She paused and I let her words sink in.

“The second beautiful thing in that story is it says that immediately, instead of three men walking around in the fire, there were four. So Jesus was there. There’s the promise I have when I go through these things–I am not walking alone. Because Jesus is with me, I can have peace and joy despite what’s happening to me. And my favorite part of the story is that when King Nebuchadnezzar pulled these men out of the fire, they didn’t smell like smoke. I love that. Because of my relationship with God–if I keep my focus on him while I’m going through the trials–I come out of it and I don’t smell like smoke.”

She looks at me and her green eyes are bright with hope.

“And that is my goal every day. I don’t always succeed, but that’s what I want my life to be. I want to not smell like smoke.”

Behold I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. Isaiah 43:19

***

Erin founded Broken but Priceless Ministries in September 2010. Each day, she is in contact with people all over the world who refuse to allow their illness to cripple them emotionally and spiritually.

Erin is also a writer and speaker. She has written for publications, websites, and magazines, including but not limited to Chicken Soup for the Soul, Yahoo!, and The Courier. Along with being close to completing her first book, she is also the editor-in-chief of Broken but Priceless: The Magazine. Erin speaks at events, retreats, and churches of all denominations. Her message to people who are suffering is that God can bring beauty out of pain and brokenness. No matter what the situation is and how bad things may appear, God is greater. Because of His great love, there is always hope.

Anxiety slaps me awake as the morning of her interview dawns. At work, I alternate between worry she’ll cancel and anguish over the inevitable subject matter. By the time two o’clock rolls around and I’m driving to the coffee shop, I’m so far gone I need a paper bag. Holt’s last-minute work meeting gives me a chance to ask the Barista if I can use the private space behind the sliding barn doors. Thankfully, I have just enough time to re-arrange the chairs to achieve positional perfection while sipping my highly caffeinated beverage. When Holt arrives, I awkwardly pay for her mixed tea as a small token of my thanks for doing the interview.

We make small talk while she settles her pregnant self into the thinly-padded Ikea armchair. She’s expecting her third–a little girl they plan to name Hannah. Silence falls and I know it’s time. As soon as I hit record on my phone, I launch into my first question. “Will you tell me a little about what happened?”

Condensation rolls down the cup as she sets her tea next to her. “When I was pregnant with Stone, at my twenty-week ultrasound, the nurse said, ‘I see enough normal to know that his heart is not normal, so we’re going to send you to a specialist.’ They sent us to a specialist in Columbia. The doctor didn’t have the greatest bedside manner and was like, ‘Yeah, your child definitely has a heart defect.’ From that moment on, our world changed. We were sent to a specialist in Charleston and they diagnosed Stone with not one, but four major heart defects. In utero, they said we have nothing to worry about and, once born, he would have one surgery to fix things and he should be fine.”

“Stone was born by c-section at MUSC on August 22, 2013. He cried just like every other newborn baby. He was eight pounds, thirteen ounces, which was huge for a heart baby–usually they’re a lot smaller. For the first week, to look at him, you wouldn’t know there was anything wrong with him. A few days before he was a week old, the surgeon sat down with us. Up until that point, the doctors had been very optimistic. ‘One surgery–done. He’s going to live a normal, healthy life.’ We kept trusting the doctors and that God was speaking through the doctors and the process. But the surgeon was the dose of reality we weren’t ready for–what pulled the rug from underneath us. This was the guy who actually had to do it, so he’s going to be honest with you. He said how extreme the procedure is he was about to do. He told us, ‘We won’t know until we really get in there,’ instead of, ‘One surgery–done. We’re good.’ It ended up being a ten-and-a-half hour surgery. He said there were a few areas they wanted to keep an eye on, but it looked like it was successful. They told us to go home, eat, and rest. We got a call at dinner that he was crashing, but they’d stabilized him by the time we made it back.”

“Really after that, it was recovery. He spent sixty-five days in the hospital. The only thing that kept us there a little longer was his feeding issues, but we went home right before Halloween. All his checkups were pretty normal. He had RSV once and had to go back down to MUSC, but kicked it within a couple of days like normal, healthy kids would. Then … really, a normal childhood.”

I try to stop the dread, but it creeps in and sets up camp in my stomach.

“And then one day he got sick and we took him down to Charleston and they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him because everything showed up fine. We got home and spent the weekend with him. It was actually the opening weekend of my photography studio and I was set to open it the next day. I remember feeding him a bottle at four o’clock in the morning–”

The espresso machine’s steamy whistle fills the air as she pauses in an attempt to regain control. But her face crumples and she cannot stop the tears.

“–and just holding him. I put him in his crib and went back upstairs to go to sleep. Usually when I came down the steps to get them ready for daycare, he’d be standing up with his big smile, and he wasn’t. But he usually didn’t eat that late in the morning so I thought it wasn’t that weird for him to still be sleeping. I looked, and his chest wasn’t going up and down. I thought, ‘Surely I’m not seeing this.’ So I went in there and he wasn’t–he wasn’t blue. It just looked like he was sleeping. I grabbed him and started screaming for my husband, Shane, because I didn’t know what to do. And it just became chaos after that. Madison–” She pauses to let the worst of her pain pass before finishing her next thought about Stone’s older sister. “–she had to see the whole thing. She was hysterical. We were on the phone with the ambulance and trying to do CPR on him.”

Her anguish is so painful to witness that I stare down at my lap and watch my own tears fall.

“They wouldn’t let us ride with him in the ambulance and by the time we got to the hospital it was like– It wasn’t real. We were in the backseat of a car that was taking us to the hospital to, to what? To try and save our son? To make plans to bury our son? When we got there, they had cut open his little Santa pj’s–it was February, but they were about the only pj’s that still fit him–and were trying to work on him. But they said there was nothing else they could do.”

She wipes her eyes and stares into the distance.

“When Stone was born, I felt like God had prepared me for this. But I obviously never wanted it to happen like that, so it was a shock. Even though we went through what we went through with his heart surgery, it’s not something I pictured. But Shane and I can look back on the week prior and see how God gave time to each of our parents and us individually, and I’m thankful I’m able to see that.”

I sense she’s already naturally leading into it, so I preface my second question. “Obviously my initial blog for this series was about you. I can remember when I finally put two and two together and saw you singing that song, “King of My Heart.” I see the way you sing it …” I can’t speak for a moment because of the lump in my throat. “… and I know you mean it. And I don’t– I want to understand how you can say that God is good.”

She’s nodding her understanding before I finish my sentence and lets out an ironic laugh.

“When I was in the hospital just after Stone was born, my dad reminded me of something I’d said when I was younger. I’d told him that I always felt like I was one big fiery furnace away from truly understanding God. And when he told me that, I was like–” Her tears interrupt for a moment. “–of course I would say that. I feel like I’m pre-determining myself for something. But I never really had a trial that made me have no choice but to come face-to-face with God. So until you have that rug pulled out from under you–until you …” She pauses as she searches for the words. “… until you truly give up the illusion of control and realize that ultimately God’s plan is God’s plan …” She trails off but starts again with confidence. “I’ve always believed everything happens for a reason, but I didn’t truly understand that until I started seeing Stone’s life unfold in front of me–from the day he was born until the day he passed away. I got to see the miracles everyone had always talked about.”

I don’t know what expression I had after she made her statement, but she elaborated quickly nonetheless. “They hate to say it, but when I tell people that, they’re like, ‘Yeah, but wouldn’t a miracle have been him coming back?’ When we were in the ER and they’d told us he was gone, my mom hugged me and said, ‘I’m praying for a miracle. I’m praying for a miracle.’ And I said, ‘Mom, you don’t understand. His life is a miracle. He was not supposed to be here.’ I mean–” She sobs. “I got seventeen months with a little boy who wasn’t supposed to be here. He might not have made it past conception really. His life, as short as it was, was more of a blessing than I could’ve asked for. I felt like God had prepared me for anything that was going to happen in this boy’s life. I was not expecting the end result we had, but I felt like God had given me more than I deserved. So I couldn’t be ungrateful for the time I didn’t have because I was so grateful for the time I did have. If that makes sense.”

I say, “It does. And that sort of segues into my last question, which is the hardest for me.” I take a deep breath. “What would you say to someone who would ask, ‘If God is a good God, why would he allow that to happen?'”

Her response is immediate. “That’s a hard question.” The quiet hum of coffee preparation and news anchor chatter fills the air for long moments. “And … it’s a loaded question.” We laugh and the atmosphere of grief is disrupted.

“Please hear me when I say that I don’t have a right answer,” I add.

She says, “I don’t think anybody does. That’s the mystery of God.” She pauses, searching for the right words. “The peace that I felt–I know that couldn’t have come from anywhere else. There’s no rational way I dealt with what I went through and could’ve been peaceful with it. Before Stone was born, I wouldn’t have known how to listen for God. And no, I have not audibly heard the voice of God. But. But I’m looking for it now because I know how to listen. I grew up singing, but when Stone passed away, it became real to me that music was what God gave me to get me through this. When I am singing, I feel like I’m closest to God. When I’m right there leading a song, I feel like no amount of prayers or devotionals or anything can compete with being in that moment. It’s more real to me now than it was when I was just leading worship. Not that I just led worship before, but everything has a deeper meaning since Stone passed away. I believe the deeper meaning you have with the gift God gives you, the more you can do with it.”

“It’s hard to explain why God does things because no one knows–no one can. I believe, not that God makes things happen, but he allows them to bring people to him. That circumstances are allowed to happen to people to make them or others aware of Christ, and ultimately, of eternity. You want to say, ‘Well God would never allow this to happen.’ But it happened. The amount of people who were affected by Stone and his life, and ultimately his death leads to God. You can see God in all the people who came to know Christ through a little boy. I think the reaction to what happens is the most important thing. I could easily go the other way with it, but for Shane and I, it is choosing to look at what God gave us. Even in the heart-wrenching loss. It was knowing that what he gave us was more than enough.”

He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear and put their trust in the LORD. Psalm 40:3

***

Holt is the director of admissions and marketing at Conway Christian School and is involved in the horse community and her husband’s quarter horse business. They started the Heart of Stone Foundation in order to help other families with children born with congenital heart defects and regularly deliver Heart of Stone goodie bags to families at the Children’s Heart Center at MUSC. She, her husband Shane, and six-year-old daughter Madison, welcomed Hannah Dell into the world on May 24, 2017.

If you’d like to hear more from Holt, check out The Rock Church’s new series, Behind the Music, starting this Thursday, June 29, 2017 at 6:30 pm or this Sunday, July 2, 2017 at 9 or 11 am. But no worries if you miss it. You’ll be able to find it in the archives.

She either means what she’s singing with every fiber of her being or she’s just super expressive. Her beautiful face is illuminated by the colorful stage lights moving in tempo with the song. Her eyes closed and a hand raised, she offers up her resolute praise.

You are good, good, oh-ohh.

You are good, good, oh-ohh.

You are good, good, oh-oh-ohh.

You are good, good, oh-ohh.

I think she means it.

I don’t know her, but I know of her personal tragedy and the knowledge makes me choke on the words as I attempt to sing the same. I glance next to me at the Holy Spirit to see if he notices my inner turmoil but his gaze is fixed upward. The questions churning in my mind have jagged edges: How can a good God allow innocent children to suffer and die? How can a good God ignore the prayers of thousands for their beloved pastor to not succumb to cancer? How can a good God allow one of his faithful daughters to give birth to a stillborn baby?

The oppressive questions darken my heart with pain and grief, but it’s not until I feel the Holy Spirit’s hand on my shoulder that I realize I’m crying. Without a word, he draws me to his side and holds me while my tears flow there in the darkened auditorium.

Later, while he’s seated across from me at the coffee shop and I’m warming my hands on the steaming mug of chai tea he asks, “How are you?”

“I’m struggling,” I replied. “I can’t wrap my mind around how she can sing those words and mean them after what she’s gone through.” I pause and take a deep breath. “And I’m terrified of what tragedy I’ll face. I feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting to see what horrific thing you’ll allow in my life to test me like Job. The truth is,” I stop and examine the honey-tone wood grain on the table. “The truth is, I don’t know if I will be capable of believing that you are good in the aftermath. Or that I will ever want to.” I fiddle with my mug while I work up the courage to meet his gaze. When I finally do, I don’t sense any anger or judgment.

“Why don’t you ask them?” he says.

“What? Ask who?”

“The people you’re thinking of who have walked through tragedy. Get them to tell you their stories. Find out how they can say that I am good, even after their storm.”

I sit back in my chair and ponder the ramifications of his proposal. As much as I care about the people I have in mind, I am not eager to dive, pen-first, into their pain. But I’m already hurting for them. It would be nice to get to share in the hope they have. And maybe their story needs sharing. I find myself nodding. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

His answering smile is sweet as he takes a sip of his double espresso. “Taste and see that the Lord is good. Blessed is the man who takes refuge in him.”

***

Motherhood/life experience/etc. has unleashed a host of hellacious fears that threaten to permanently maim me if not combated. I have long tried to avoid them, but now find myself at a place in life where I am forced to engage not only those fears, but also some of the difficult aspects of following Christ. Growing pains, I guess.

Maybe, just maybe, I’m not alone in my struggle, which is why I hope you will join me. I do not know how long our journey will last nor do I know how many stories will be told. I don’t pretend to think this will be an easy road. But the roads worth taking rarely are.

My oldest baby turns three today. Here are a few pics JP snapped of me just before delivery. Sans drugs or paper cuts. Impressive–I know.



I probably could’ve used an epidural or two during the arduous three plus years of labor, but it is true what they say; once your baby is born, you forget about the pain of giving birth. Let Me Fall is no exception.

Now, three years later, I am still moved by the outpouring of love and support shown during the release of Let Me Fall. Especially from the likes of these two guys, who I can only assume are currently tossing around a football with Jesus and are severely missed.

“Big Jules” Derrick at the first book signing.



Kevin Childs’ Amazon review.

It’s been sweet to reminisce over pictures and Amazon reviews these last few days. Sweeter still is when I get a random message that God is currently using Let Me Fall to speak to someone. I think every parent desires their children to contribute to society; to, in some way, shape, or form, leave their mark. God can do what he will with Let Me Fall, but my prayer is that my baby grows up to impact many. And that God will give Let Me Fall more siblings.

Hi Internets!

So I turned 10 months the other day! Don’t be jealous that my months are in the double digits now. Mama was getting ready for my photo shoot when I spied two new toys.

When Mama saw what I’d snagged, she got really quiet and smiley. She told me she’d made them for me. Just before I could utter, “well naturally”, she said, “I made them for you long before you were ever a bun in my oven.” (You’ll have to read the link or you won’t get this post. Just sayin.)

She blathered on for a while and I tuned her out because I just wanted to nom nom my newfound hooters. But the words “God’s timing” sorta stuck out. Oh and this verse:

Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart. Psalm 37:4

Well that’s it for now. Until next time Internets!

Wassup. Mom let me hijack her laptop so I could introduce myself. I’m Ava Jane, in case we haven’t met yet. I’m liking the big wide world so far. My only beef is the fact that I’m tired all the time. So tired. T-i-r …

Okay, sorry about that. I’m back. Anyway, let me introduce you to my people.

Here’s my daddy. (This picture is so old.)

Isn’t he precious?

 That hat is so big it makes me look like Darth Helmet (for those of you cool enough to get the Spaceballs reference).

I love him so much. And I’m pretty much the best thing that’s ever happened to him. I hear people talk about how much he’s changed since I came along–about what a sweet softie he is. Momma says he’s always been that way–it’s just that I bring it out in him. We communicate pretty well and I already have him wrapped. (My smiles reduce him to warm, soppy man-goo. Muhahaha.) But seriously. I love that pile of man-goo.

Here’s my momma.

I love her an awful lot too. And pretty sure I’m also the best thing that’s ever happened to her. She’s my milk factory. Even when the workers went on strike, she kept production going. I respect that.  I like it when she sings to me but she really needs to add some new songs to the mix. But I forgive her. Because I love her.

Sometimes my people say I sound like a Velociraptor. I don’t know what that is, but it must be an adorable creature. On another note, the whole “tummy time” thing is seriously overrated. I am not amused. Just stop.

I can’t wait to tell my people how I feel about them. Soon. Until then, I’ll just keep being all cute and stu– …