An Unlikely Answer

           I have a deep love for Israel, the Holy Land, the chosen earthen neighborhood of My Jesus. Daddy first traveled there when I was young and returned with stories upon stories of the majesty of Zion. As a young girl I remember listening with eager ears and wide eyes to these stories from Daddy, threading together the information with a childlike desire to one day dirty my own toes in the red dust of Jerusalem. This dream came true many years later in January of 2011 and ever since returning to the States my heart has been permanently imprinted with profound sensitivity towards Israel. The experience was so dear to me, as I write it is as if I can still hear the symphony of the gentle waves on the shore of the Sea of Galilee and feel the winds of the rolling wilderness brush against my cheek, taste dough’s steam from warm bread in the Jewish Quarter and smell the morning dew upon the grass in the Judean Hills. Mama followed behind Daddy and me, traveling the land last March, and now the three of us connect as a family in a new way with our shared love for this precious country. With this said, we are all grieving for the recent outbreak of war between Israel and Gaza.

                The other night I was lost in thought regarding this war. As Christmas approaches, my thoughts led me to sweet memories of walking the streets in Bethlehem, Christ’s birthplace, memories now tainted with the current raging violence and bloodshed upon those same streets. The pain and sorrow the people must be experiencing there led me to think of the Western Wall in Jerusalem, otherwise known as the Wailing Wall. This wall still standing was once part of the structure of Herod’s Temple over 2,000 years ago and it is a wall that the Jewish community set apart to retreat to for prayer and petition to Jehovah God.

                I was overcome by emotion when I visited this site. Characterized by moans and cries lifted to the heavens and men, women, and children hovered over opened Torahs and  rocking back and forth to rhythmic supplications—this wall is held together by much more than ancient stones. Between the seams of each rock lie written prayers on paper folded tightly from a questioning people desperate for an answer. This tradition has continued for hundreds of years—thousands upon thousands of aching prayers written in all languages gluing prehistoric stones together in this Wailing Wall. And yet, I couldn’t help but think that the backbone of most of these prayers questioned, “When will the Messiah come?” And the answer is confrontational—He has already come. He is here now.

                And I think upon Jesus’ statement in Luke 19:40, “If they keep quiet, the stones will cry out." This wall is not one dedicated to mail questions into heaven, but a monument from heaven to constantly remind the people of the Answer. These stones stand year after year whispering over and over again the Name above all names who is the Answer—Immanuel. Such holy irony—questioning prayers inserted into the wall of the Answer. And I think, how many times in my life have I prayed in questions when I am standing in the midst of the Answer?

***

                It is the eve of Thanksgiving. Mama lied sick in bed with a fever, discomforting nausea, and swollen mouth sores. Thus far, it was the worst day of her cancer experience. Due to her weak condition, we canceled our holiday plans to drive to Oregon to be with family and decided to throw together a last minute feast. That night, after a busy afternoon of cooking side-by-side with Lexi (Aaron’s girlfriend), I was alone in the kitchen finishing the last of the baking. With knuckles kneading pie dough my mind unlocked and burrowed into thoughts that transformed into vulnerable prayers. I smile at this consideration—prayers buried deeply into crust soon to be birthed into hungry bellies. Prayers of questions mostly centered on my changing relationship with Aaron.

                Through the years, Aaron was as close to me as my shadow, my side kick, my playmate, my companion, my best friend. He knew what I was thinking before I uttered a word, which is remarkable given the odd nature to how I think. And what I treasured the most is how my position alone as his older sister beckoned his look of admiration towards me. And now the requisite change of growing up and falling in love with a soul mate has brought with it the pain of letting go. I want to clarify how much I adore Aaron’s girlfriend, Lexi. As I spend increasing time with her I see more and more how perfect she is for Aaron. But it does not negate the pain of, in many ways, being replaced by another. Aaron does not need me the way he once did. And this is a necessary good. But it is hard.

                I knead faster, burying my sorrow further and further into dough. Why do we have to grow up? Can’t Aaron have Lexi and everything still remain the same? This happened so quickly—can’t we have one more Thanksgiving with no change? Vulnerable questions squeezed into my Wailing Wall of pie dough. And I pause before I ask more questions and wonder if perhaps the Answer is uttering in response.

                The Holy Spirit leads my thoughts through countless memories of praying for Aaron’s future wife—curled under covers in my footy pajamas slurring child prayers, silent prayers lifted during instrumental refrains singing our Moulin Rouge duet together on our way to high school, and prayers embedded into sand on our morning walks along the Mozambique shore this summer.

                This scroll of memories ceases when Aaron and Lexi enter the kitchen as I finish the last of the lattice crust topping. I look intently at Lexi as grace invades my vision. And I no longer see her as the epitome of change but the embodiment of countless answered prayers, an extension of divine grace from the Cross just for me. A subtle laugh escapes and I realize that the answer was present before the question was raised. And I think again, how many times am I living in the wake of an answered prayer yet never receive the gift of the answer due to my preoccupation with other questions?

***

                In the Spring of 2010 Mama visited Grandpa Dick, her father, in his assisted living home. Upon her return she told me the following story that has forever made an impression upon my heart. During her time visiting Grandpa Dick she serenaded the patients within the home with a flute performance. Mama noticed a fragile elderly woman paralyzed from the neck down listening with joy to her music. This woman’s condition was so serious her head had to be supported by extension rods and a halo. Her shoulders were contorted in an unnatural position as she sank into her wheel chair. Yet this did not prevent her from releasing her spirit in loud song whenever Mama played a recognizable show tune or hymn. This woman sang aloud with a voice marked by age yet beautiful nonetheless, offering support to Mama’s hour-long recital.  

                At the end of Mama’s performance, she acknowledged this precious woman and told her what a lovely voice she had. The woman responded with a glimpse of glory from her past. She was formerly an accomplished opera singer before her handicapped condition. Mama, so intrigued, further asked, “What is your story?” And the response is one I will always remember. Her delicate voice replied not in spoken answer, but in the well-known song of praise:

                “I sing because I am happy, I sing because I am free.

                His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me.”

This angelic paralytic disguised in a halo of steel rather than heavenly gold radiated joy inexplicable that Mama has recounted ever since. And I as well.

                As Mama finished unfolding this story to me, she concluded her thoughts with a simple desire, “I hope one day I will be able to sing with such joy even in the midst of great trial.”

                And my eyes now fill with tears induced by awe of the Almighty as I embrace the moment of now. I divert my attention from mind forming written words to the melody that floats in elegance around me, Mama playing songs full of Christmas bliss on her flute. Her flute has offered an avenue to express her soul before God when words are utterly inadequate. I lean far over to see her, the back of her black cotton beanie covering bald scalp, beams of light radiating from her dancing gold instrument— prayerful breath traveling through her gold breed of Wailing Wall transcribing heart language of music into the heavens.  Holiday joy kneaded deeply into each note.

                And again, grace invades my vision, and I see past the flautist in the grips of chemo into the heavenly reality lying underneath this realm of the natural. This rare and costly flute was given to her as a gift in July 1998 from an anonymous donor touched by her song. Since then, this flute, deserving of center stage in Carnegie Hall, has not even graced a woodwind’s seat in a symphony. Mama, unreservedly devoted to her family and raising us kids, has not had the chance to make such a debut with her fine instrument. Yet I wonder if God moved upon the heart of one anonymous man to make an extreme offering of generosity in granting Mama the flute of her dreams so that fourteen years later, in the crux of cancer, she may have the means to live out the miracle she petitioned two years ago: her flute “sings with such joy in the midst of great trial.”  Within the melody of Deck the Halls, the notes seem to resound the powerful whispers, “I sing because I am happy, I sing because I am free…”

                Could this journey of cancer simply be the masquerade of an answered prayer? I do not believe God ever wishes to make us suffer through illness and disease. But I do believe His presence transforms the most ordinary circumstances and despondent situations into holy miracles and prayers answered. All creation shouts aloud the Answer—Jesus. It softly resonates from the most unlikely passages—be it ancient stones in a historic wall, or dough of a pie crust, or the gold cylinder of a flute. And this thought makes my knees quake overcome by such fierce grace that is impossible to escape. If Jesus is the Answer, and He is in us and therefore entrenched deeply into the ordinary moments of the passing day, is not all of life simply an answered prayer?

Perhaps the truest reality today is not the ugliness of cancer but the beauty of the Answer.

                Perhaps things truly are not as they seem to the natural eye. Perhaps the heads of the most joyous saints are not adorned with a ring of glory but a halo of steel or a bald scalp. Perhaps the war torn streets, and the pain in changing relationships, and  the nausea of chemo—the circumstances that cause us to question—are actually testaments from heaven ordained to lead us to the Answer. Perhaps the greatest miracle of Jesus was not the feeding of thousands or the raising of a dead man but His restraint upon the Cross.

                What appeared as the worst day of doom in history was truly God’s greatest eternal destiny for humanity. His death, while initially the cause of great suffering and unmet expectations, was the means to forever connect the gaping separation of a wicked people with a holy God so that we could forever live by His life in perfect unity with the Almighty. His death defeated forevermore the power of Satan and every principality of darkness so that we may experience divine freedom all our days. His death made a way for the Answer to dwell in the hearts of a questioning people so that we may no longer be inclined to doubt but instead rest in trust. His death paved a path for a malicious criminal to be made a royal son. His death transformed the abandoned harlot into a beloved bride. Behold the greatest miracle ever known—restraint from the Omnipotent God upon a bloody Cross. An event often scorned but full of wondrous grace. And behold an unlikely answer—supernatural joy further grasped within the apex of cancer.

                The notes from Mama’s flute dissolve soft in the dining room. She slowly rises and returns her flute to its stand. But I cannot move, caught within the weighty tension of grace. I close my eyes, sink into the cushions of the couch, and rather than question the Answer I answer the question hidden within all questions—“Jesus, You are good…”