The remembrance crept into my mind this afternoon – a memory usually left somewhere in the back, catalogued for an occasional trip down memory lane.
It was hellish ride that night. We huddled tightly together in the backseat of a friend’s truck, following behind an ambulance that carried my injured boy. We could barely see the vehicle’s reflecting lights for the ferocious havoc of Hurricane Florence. The storm was only beginning its assault on our community, and my son was one of its first victims.
“How will I know if he dies on the way to Charlotte? That’s a long trip to not know the condition of my son. How will I know?”
My heart was breaking as I questioned the valiant EMTs who’d made the three-hour journey from Charlotte in hurricane-force winds just to turn around and head back into them with my son as their cargo.
“We’ll meet you in the ER, Mrs. Olsen. He’s in good hands.”
And just like that, they were gone. I couldn’t touch my son, couldn’t hold on to him should he slip away to Jesus during those hours of dark separation. Instead, I could only release him to the night’s drive in hopes of his survival.
With communication cut off, I entered into the deepest, darkest moments I have known on this earth. I had no way of knowing if the son I loved so dearly was with me or if, instead, he was with his Father in heaven. I simply and profoundly had to let go and tarry with the unknown … come what may.
That’s a difficult holding, friends, to be suspended in a place of not-knowing.
Some of us are feeling a similar weightiness right now. We’re trailing behind an ambulance that holds someone … something … we dearly love.
Yes, a different season with different circumstances. Still and yet, a time that feels heavy … like a storm is brewing just off the coast, readying itself for landfall. A night pregnant with the possibility of a Cat-5 hurricane.
Howling winds; falling trees; rising waters; a lack of communication with the ambulance up ahead.
That’s how weighty this day in 2021 feels to me, a bit like that night back in 2018.
Two thousand years ago, another mom stood at a distance from her son’s wounding. She couldn’t hold him in the dark hours of separation, only tarry with her punctured heart:
“When all the people who had gathered to witness this sight saw what took place, they beat their breasts and went away. But all those who knew him, including the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching these things.” (Luke 23:48-49)
All those who knew him – standing at a distance.
Let that sink deeply into your thoughts. Picture the scene. Feel that moment of utter separation and desperation.
The pause seems interminable.
As it was for those who were distanced from Christ 2000 years ago, and as it was for me two years ago, so it may be for some of us today.
As questions begin to mount in this space of not-knowing, so can the fear. What cannot be understood in these hours of silence can only be imagined. And those imaginations left unchecked are rarely the underpinning of a solid faith; instead, they are often its undermining.
This is the heart stretch … the reaching part where our faith must exceed our grasp.
We’ll not know the outcome of the ambulance ride until it reaches the ER. And to get there, we must be willing to follow behind its reflection.
Into the winds; around fallen trees; through rising waters; without communication.
Indeed, the heart stretch of faith.
The ambulance is moving, friends. Get in your vehicles. Follow closely the dimming lights in front of you. Follow trustingly. Follow prayerfully. Follow fully – all the way through to the ER.
God is with you on the ride; God is waiting for you as you arrive. A Cat-5 hurricane is no match for the accompanying and powerful presence of our Lord.
You’re in good hands. So am I. I’ll meet you in the ER. Until then…
Peace for the journey,
PS: For those of you new to Jadon’s story, you can click here to see more.
I watched the faint blip of light hop through the night sky. It was barely noticeable set against the clear, brilliant backdrop of the crisp January evening. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have noticed it during my walk; ordinarily I’m not looking up.