Oh, she’s adorable! Is she your first?” asked the friendly checker at Trader Joe’s. The question snapped me to attention while Fifi squirmed and struggled in the grocery cart, determined not to leave a single chocolate bar on the display untouched.
As I attempted to be a gracious mother and speak sweetly to my little one while juggling yams and reusable bags and credit cards, I felt it. The lurch. The deer-in-headlights moment, feeling suspended in time. I had to make a split-second decision. Do I give an honest answer and say she’s my third? Do I lie to save face and say she’s my second?
On the fly I calculated what the relationship with the person was: Would I see them again? Did they know who I was? Would they later find out Daisy was gone and conclude I was delusional for what I was about to say? Because the question that always follows is how old the others are. Would it get weird? Should I tell them my middle child’s body lies cold in a grave? I’d done that before, and it was awkward. Incredibly awkward.
So I did what felt like lying but was, actually, the true truth.
“No, she’s my third.”
“Surely not! You’re so young and fit and fabulous! [Okay, that part was my imagination.] How old are the others?”
Deep breath.
“They are eleven and fourteen,” I said.
I did it. I said something that was truth, though it could be construed as a lie. And I did it to escape the potential look of horror on a stranger’s face and the stuttering and the gauche stories of her cat’s bout with cancer or her grandma’s death. And I didn’t regret it.
While the checker chattered on about how much my baby’s siblings must love her and help out so much at home, I got lost in the daydream of what it would have been like if Daisy had stayed on earth with us. She would have been eleven. She should have been eleven. It was not a lie; she is alive. She just lives somewhere that I can’t see. I know it with all my heart. I am assured of this ethereal fact, this gorgeous mystery, because of what I have read in the Word of God, because I am acquainted with the One who conquered death. I have faith she is alive, faith I will join her, faith my tears are being collected and treasured, eventually to be wiped away.
Faith is a peculiar thing. “Have faith,” people say when they’re hoping it rains. “Have faith,” they say when you’re up for a promotion. Or “Have faith,” they say when your daughter is on her third cancer diagnosis, fighting for existence and at death’s door. We throw the word around, featherlight, gaily at an afternoon tea. Or we grip hands covered in sweat and dust, looking deep into eyes whose light is waning. Sometimes faith makes me think of ruby slippers clicked together or fingers crossed. Or of scrunched-up eyes and the groaning sound you make when you’re reaching for something that’s just an inch too far away. That word holds the weight of hopes and dreams; it can be airy or religious, meaningless or deep. Faith and confusion seem to bleed together, running down until you aren’t sure what it was supposed to look like in the first place.
Truth is, it’s not all that confusing. Once we shed our American Christian culture, our personal experiences with erroneous faith healers, or any false ideologies we might have held or assimilated, faith is more clear, more lovely, more life-giving than we can imagine. The Bible defines faith as the “confidence that what we hope for will actually happen; it gives us assurance about things we cannot see” (Heb. 11:1). This, this simple definition, holds an entire world in the balance for me. I can close my eyes and feel Daisy’s warm delicate hand in mine. I feel her velvety hair right underneath my chin, the way I held her on my lap thousands of times. I hold my breath expectantly, certain of her existence, of her aliveness in a place I cannot see. I have my foot lifted, arms out—my stance ready to enter into this wonderful place and catch her at any moment.
Mary, the brave lioness, the mother of Messiah, demonstrated so much of this faith during her pregnancy and birth, though her agreement to participate in the story surely brought bewilderment. It began with a bang: the heavenly messenger, the bright star, the choir of angels, the exotic royal gift bearers, all surrounding Mary like confetti shot high into the air, twinkling down all around her and casting a gilded glow.
But then . . . silence. Like a book slamming shut, perhaps a few dust motes lazily spiraling in no particular direction. Following this supernatural commencement came years of obscurity and quiet. After all the confetti had fallen and become dusty on the ground, wedged into cracks in the dirt road, Mary was doubtless wondering if she had heard correctly. Ahead were years of the mortal, years of the mundane, years of latent power mysteriously concealed in humanity.
Gone were the cosmic entourage, the perilous adventure soundtrack. All that was left was perhaps the methodical ringing of the hammer. The thighs-in-corduroy sound of the saw, the dusty carpenter clothing to wash, the low hum of a small town with its buying and selling and gossip and donkeys and rabbis. There probably wasn’t even much bickering in the family with Messiah as the eldest keeping the others in line. Every day the sun rose, bread was made, hummus was mixed, oil was pressed, garments were mended, pigeons were sacrificed, the Torah was read, and the sun set. Mundane. Life.
Until a wedding. I have been thinking about the wedding at Cana lately. I imagine the place dotted with gorgeous stone-walled estates nestled among vineyards. Olive trees lined up in neat rows with silvery green leaves quivering in the breeze and small, uniform herds of plump, healthy animals grazing lush pastures. And the famous wedding.
I’m envisioning twinkling lights everywhere, torches and candles and hanging lanterns casting the soft, radiant light that causes guests to appear svelte, sultry, and better-looking than usual. Pillows spilling out invitingly around low tables for dipping dates in herbed goat cheese and honey languidly dripping from the comb, piles of earth-hued olives. Bronze chalices of wine next to steaming stacks of flatbreads and wide saucers of hummus, pooled in the center with olive oil, green and fresh.
And dancing. Lots of it. A completely raging party where there is nary a square inch of dance floor to spare, sweat flying, hair and skirts twirling and pulsing in time with the music. Elegantly embroidered fabrics draped luxuriously around the merrymaking, creating swooping ceilings and tents, fluid with the night air. Gorgeous. At least in my mind. I actually have no idea what it would have looked like! But what we do know is that there was wine. Jugs of it. And that at this particular wedding, it had run out (What a bunch of lushes!), causing a problem for the wedding host.
Now Mary, ever the proud mother, knew her Jesus could do something about this relatively unimportant yet public and present problem. I just love that. Mamas, don’t we all feel like that about our sons? Especially firstborns. We make them do their tricks, sing sweet songs, and play instruments for guests. We brag on their abilities; we showcase all their accomplishments. We are starry-eyed about them. And of course Jesus, being God and all, could fix anything!
What I find most interesting here is that this wedding took place before Jesus had started his public ministry. He had gathered his disciples and been baptized by his cousin John, but there were no miracles recorded yet. He appeared ordinary, as described in Isaiah 53:2: “There was nothing beautiful or majestic about his appearance, nothing to attract us to him.” He didn’t even have a wife. Average guy from an average family, from an average town.
So, after all this time, after such a mystifying and incomprehensible yet celebratory beginning, he lived an incredibly common life. Had Mary spent thirty years with Jesus just waiting? I’m sure he was a great kid and a hardworking tradesman, but a miracle maker? Considering the political climate and Jesus’ lack of antagonism toward Roman rule, was she second-guessing his identity? Maybe she ate too much spicy lamb that night when Gabriel came, or maybe he was the product of a young imagination? I don’t think so.
No, all those years she’d held on to the words of the Lord. She had pondered them. She had stored them up in her heart, and despite having never seen Jesus perform a miracle, that truth gave her the confidence to ask him to do something about the wine problem. The story is really so cute. She learned the wine supply ran dry, so she found him and said (in my imagination) in a womanly, read-my-mind sort of way, “They have no more wine.”
Hint. Hint.
And he replied with, “Mom! Stop pressuring me!” Okay, no, that was my son. Her perfect son said, “Dear woman, that’s not our problem. My time has not yet come.” Jesus was telling her he was not super into it; the miracle show had not officially commenced.
Mary, ever human and a female human at that, ignored him and told the servants to do whatever he told them to do. Mary, you’re too much! I’m secretly relieved at this. I mean, all that sacrificing and faith and suffering and blessed-among-women stuff. She was real, after all.
We know the rest of the story. Jesus had the servants fill six stone jars with water and then had them bring some to the master of ceremonies, who after sampling it for himself was astounded at the quality of what had been turned into wine. Kind of a puzzling miracle, if you ask me, but Jesus was an efficient guy. The result of this party-saving sensation? His glory was revealed, and his disciples believed in him. Rad.
You know what my personal opinion of all this is? Two things:
She had no doubts about who her son was, even after all that time. She believed he was who he said he was and that he would do what he said he would do. Thirty years of carpentry and Passover meals and Roman occupation couldn’t change that. She had been meditating on the things that revealed God was keeping his word to her. She had been watching his movements, from the virgin birth to Jesus astounding the religious teachers and students at the temple in Jerusalem as a twelve-year-old to the beginning of his ministry. All along the way she acknowledged the hand of God.
Mary, you knocked it out of the park again with your disregard for circumstances, your trust in God’s plan, knowing the one can’t affect the other. Again, she partnered with God, stepping out into uncharted territory with confidence.
Britt and I learned to do this during the years we fought for Daisy’s life, recognizing the ways we knew God was there all along. We had to if we wanted to survive. We kept a list—not a list that showed all the victories or prayers answered exactly how we ordered them, so we could make tally marks on the scoreboard for the home team—our list showed something even better. Because when the answer to the prayer was no, when the road was rocky, when suffering didn’t let up but instead increased, we didn’t count those things against God’s record. That would have been missing out on what was good, true, and beautiful: that he saw the way we held her hands while she endured painful treatment. That he was with us, right there in the sterility of hospital rooms, in the cover of darkness as we clung to each other and convulsed with lamentation, in the endless loneliness that sickness brings. That he comforted us, from the ways he spoke to us through Scripture and friends to the small miracles that gave us peace. Had we not recognized those things we would have drowned in despair. What a humbling thing to be seen by the almighty God. What a gift to say that we have seen him. Just a teeny bit of faith can hold up even the weariest arms.
We continue on in the same way now that she is gone. We have learned to reflect on the goodness of our lives, on the loveliness that surrounds. We have learned to accept in faith both God’s blessings and the hardships, openhandedly receiving from him what he chooses to allow. And we have learned to wait. We wait for Jesus when it appears his power is latent, wait with him while the waves of sadness wash past. We wait in faith, anticipating future splendor.
It was faith that God credited to Abraham as righteousness. It was faith that freed the slaves. It was faith that gave strength to the weak. It was faith that held up many historical heads to plow through mountains of formidable obstacles. Faith raises the dead; faith says yes to God when he says no to our requests. Faith is the love note we give to God. It’s the act, or rather the choice, that pleases him.
Let’s take another look at how our biblical friends’ faith resolves, starting with Sarah. Go back to Genesis, this time to chapter 21. True to God’s word, Sarah indeed had a baby boy, Isaac. Can you just see her in her traveling desert nursery? Layers of sheepskins overlapping, white and resplendent on a bed covered by a breezy gauze canopy. Sarah and Isaac lying together face-to-face, her aging lips kissing his plump ones, her sinewy fingers caressing his, fresh and stubby. Sarah looking up in wonder at her husband, sharing the deepest joy with this flawed yet faithful man. I can see her eyes crinkling at the sides, inviting Abraham to cuddle Isaac with her. Theirs was a world of quiet wonder, of warmth, of fascination at the spectacle of life—a newborn baby.
Sarah’s worn-out body carried fat new life, and the delight of the whole marvelous affair caused an outburst—this time of felicity. She said so wonderfully in verses 6–7, “God has brought me laughter. All who hear about this will laugh with me. Who would have said to Abraham that Sarah would nurse a baby? Yet I have given Abraham a son in his old age!” Sarah’s laughter as she held that baby inspires me to laugh in enchanted expectation. She traded secret mocking for the gorgeous tinkling of the laughter of a well-loved child, for surprise and delight and belief.
Regardless of what things appear to be or what our expectations demand of us, we are being invited to openly enjoy the anticipation of goodness. First Corinthians 13:12 tells us,
Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.
As he knew Sarah, God knows us, hears us, and says there is beauty to come. We may not see it now, but it will come, as sure as Sarah’s vintage arms held fat new life, sweet breath promised and delivered.
Not only did God turn her bitter laughter joyful, but Sarah also made it into the coveted “Hall of Faith” of Hebrews 11:
It was by faith that even Sarah was able to have a child, though she was barren and too old. She believed that God would keep his promise. And so a whole nation came from this one man who was as good as dead—a nation with so many people that, like the stars in the sky and the sand on the seashore, there is no way to count them.
All these people died still believing what God had promised them. They did not receive what was promised, but they saw it all from a distance and welcomed it. They agreed that they were foreigners and nomads here on earth. Obviously people who say such things are looking forward to a country they can call their own. If they had longed for the country they came from, they could have gone back. But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them. (vv. 11–16, emphasis mine)
Do you see the goodness of God in all this? His plans were good. Because of Sarah’s and Abraham’s belief, there came a whole nation of people who looked to God despite their circumstances. God’s plans were to bless and rescue and love, in ways above what we expect or even know to ask for. And did you notice how these saints saw from a distance? They put on the lenses of Scripture, the sharp, clear, extremely good promises of God, to see further than they could see on their own.
What about Bathsheba? Bathsheba chose to honor God in the face of nasty circumstances, becoming a woman of dignity who raised her son to become a wise king. One who penned books of wisdom in the Old Testament. She unknowingly became a pivotal figure in the ancient movement lifting up a woman’s place in society, a shining star who not only lived it herself, but guides women across the ages toward a life of valor and excellence. Bathsheba saw from a distance, through tears and shame, her future as an influential queen—no longer pinned to her adulterous identity.
And Mary. Mary honored God’s will for her life, faithfully raising Jesus up from newborn to radical rabbi, all the while a faithful follower. She honored the Son of Man after his resurrection as part of the early church and carried out his request by caring for the apostle John like a son. Mary’s faith made her a crucial part of the gospel going forth; she saw from a distance how worthwhile it was to pour her whole life out before the Lord, an offering fragrant and pure. I can just see her, surrounded by grand-babies and disciples and liberated women, laughing and remembering the days when the real, living Son of Man ate at her table, under her roof. Her faith was a driving force behind the joy with which she lived out her remaining days, anticipating reunion with her beloved firstborn.
All three women trusted God with impossible lives, unable to see how it would turn out in the end but giving their everything with open arms.
The beautiful thing about every one of these stories is that it was all Jesus! The promises, the pulling through, the blessing, the miraculous. All him. And it’s still all him today. He is the one doing amazing things, giving without limit, yet we are the ones who receive, who benefit.
I have every reason to laugh without fear of the future; I have every reason to enjoy beauty, to dance and sing and surf and ride horses and eat delicious food. Like my biblical sisterhood, I can choose not to stay in the place of idle sadness. I can choose to lift my head, receive the gift of God’s renewing love, and move forward, pressing into his generosity. Because the grace of God is without limit, shall I not reach for all I can get of it, even when it’s difficult to see?
Even though things in my life are far from perfect, and they never will be, I have learned to lean into the goodness of God as I wait in faith for his ultimate redemption. I have come to the conclusion that it does not glorify God to wallow in despondency like a pig in mud. If I actually, really believe that this life is not all there is, if I truly believe the Word of God, the laws and prophets and books of history, the love poetry, the letters from missionaries to the early church, if I truly believe the visions of future goings-on, the comforting healing words of love written in an extraordinary compilation of sixty-six books authored by the Holy Spirit through forty different writers over the course of fifteen hundred years, I have every reason to rejoice.
All these yeses, all this hope, all this fixing of our eyes on the Beautiful One has proven to be worth it. That is the simplicity and loveliness of faith. Sarah and Bathsheba and Mary were merely foreigners here on earth, and so am I, and so are you. We are just passing through, not planning on settling in, not planning on staying forever. Why would we? This is not our country! Like the heroes of the faith, we choose. We get to decide where we want to “live” and then live accordingly. In the passage above from Hebrews, it says the faithful could have chosen to go back to where they came from, but they didn’t. And neither will I.
My country is heaven. My country is where my Redeemer has prepared an imperishable and marvelous place for me. My country is where I will be welcomed by loved ones with doors flung wide, hands in the air, and big kisses right on the lips. It’s where I will confidently climb into Jesus’ lap and lift my face to feel his soft beard that had once been plucked out for me. It’s where I will put my fingers in his nail-scarred hands and marvel at being so treasured, so heroically rescued. It’s where he will look me fiercely in the eyes and say, “It’s okay now. You’re safe here.” It’s where he will gently dry the tears. Pain and dying will be done away with, and my best little girlfriend, whom I have missed all these years, will run into my arms and I will kiss her freckles once again. It’s where I will brush her hair and hold her tight and swim and play and fly with her.
It’s where I will be full-hearted, mended completely. It’s where love will be consummated in the most real way we will ever know, and we will be swallowed up by life. It’s where I will tip my brand-new, splendid, heavenly head back and, while showing every tooth, laugh my loudest, my freest. The laughter won’t end, the light won’t be vanquished. In God’s mercy I will receive imperishable crowns of life and rejoicing and glory and righteousness.
My country is a place where a river flows, clear as crystal, watering twelve trees that give fruit every month. It’s where there are gates of pearl and streets of gold. My country is lit up by the light of Jesus, free from all evil, a strong fortress of grandeur held together by the Author of Life, the Originator of Beauty. And it’s a place where I will belong. I will gloriously, fully, shamelessly, and completely belong.
This, dear ones, is something to laugh about in anticipation! There is one gorgeous wedding feast of the Lamb to come, and we will dance.
This is the stuff of life: Mountains and valleys. Births and deaths. Laughter and weeping. And in my life, because I was an enemy of God and he showed me mercy while I was yet a sinner, I want to do right by him. Paul told us in 1 Corinthians 7:
Let me say this, dear brothers and sisters: The time that remains is very short. . . . Those who weep or who rejoice or who buy things should not be absorbed by their weeping or their joy or their possessions. . . . For this world as we know it will soon pass away. (vv. 29–31)
P31 girl was known for laughing without fear of the future, not sitting around crying about the past. She found a depth in suffering that made steady her confident steps heavenward. She was given so many good things to look forward to, and she wisely chose joy. There’s no time to waste.
Real life is full of real people, and real people are messy. Bathsheba was messy. Sarah was messy. Even Mary was messy. We are undeserving and selfish. We screw up, we drop the ball, we blow it time and again. But here’s what’s so amazing about looking heavenward and choosing Jesus: It doesn’t matter if you haven’t been the perfect woman. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been eclipsed by bitterness or marked by sin. It’s never too late to say yes, to accept the gifts. It wasn’t too late for Sarah or Bathsheba or even for me. And it’s not too late for you.
This glorious future is not only for the Proverbs 31 girl who makes the rest of us look bad. It’s for the hurting. The lonely. The bereaved, the grieving. It’s for the woman who’s hiding an abortion. For the woman who is in need of forgiveness, to be washed clean. It’s for the one who has suffered abuse, who is going through divorce. It’s for the girl who has tried to take her own life, for the one who cuts herself to feel something, anything. And for the one who is tuned out, numb, dead to the world. Goodness awaits you! Goodness awaits me! Come with me, jump in, and feel the warmth of anticipation, even in the cold and dark night.
Can we please laugh together? Can we please honor God, the Giver? If he gives ice cream, lick up the last drop as it runs down the cone and onto your arm. If he has given a warm day, let your skin soak up the sun until your tan glows. When he gives sweet memories, camp out there a little while, sweeping your soul with goodness. Let the food you eat not only nourish your cells, but let it be beautiful and delicious and flavorful and plentiful. Walk in the rain, splash in puddles, catch snowflakes on your tongue. Watch a spider spin a web. Explore the world with your preschooler, his hand in yours, sticky with peanut butter and fat with love. Draw eyeliner kitty cat whiskers on your six-year-old, then drink milk out of a saucer on the floor of the kitchen with her.
If he has given you babies to love, pour it on thick. Rock and sing and kiss and bless, in the same way your Abba pours out to you. The home you have been given, have fun making it pretty. Pick your neighbor’s flowers, put up drawings made by tiny, unsteady fingers, and paint the walls hot pink! Let music ring throughout; let singing and prayers abound, flowing freely from grateful lips. If he has given you a friend, a mentor, or a little sister, revel in the gift of human hearts knit together by truth. Use your gifts, use your talents, and point to the One who gave it all.
Sometimes the goodness is right in front of our faces, and sometimes it must be unearthed, but it’s there. This is life. It’s strange and wonderful and terrible all at the same time. Feel free to laugh, and feel free to cry. Feel free to create and love and take chances in scary areas of your life, for we have the brightest future to enter.
One day about halfway through Daisy’s fight, I found her sitting on her bed listening to music. Her boom box was playing the song “Lead Me to the Cross.”
She sat there so thoughtful and still. In that moment my heart broke yet again for the thousandth time. She was completely bald. She was bone thin. She was tired and sick and quarantined from friends. My girl had every reason in the world to dwell on her circumstances, for they were all around her—they could be seen in the mirror and felt with every frail breath and with every swallow through a mouth filled with sores.
She looked at me with her lashless hazel eyes, white duvet billowing all around her. And with a determined look on her face she asked me, “Mom, you know what I think this song means?”
When your seven-year-old is contemplating worship lyrics, you had better lean in close and listen.
“Tell me, honey.”
“I think it means I’m going to live if Jesus wants me to live, and I’m going to die when he says it’s time to die. But right now, until then, I’m going to live. I can feel it in my bones.”
This came from a girl who had everything she knew as a child taken from her. Health, time with friends, comfort, security. She knew she could die from her disease. And still she was a girl who loved Jesus, who bloomed where she was planted.
My girl showed faith. She also showed tears and fears and disappointment like a real human, but she saw beyond. She knew Jesus was better than anything here on earth. She could see the gifts all around her, and she savored each one. Such wisdom, such childlike faith. Her hand was held out to Jesus to walk her through the worst, the darkest. And her eyes were on the prize.
I want to leave you with this, written in a letter from dear old Peter:
Now we live with great expectation, and we have a priceless inheritance—an inheritance that is kept in heaven for you, pure and undefiled, beyond the reach of change and decay. And through your faith, God is protecting you by his power until you receive this salvation, which is ready to be revealed on the last day for all to see. So be truly glad. There is wonderful joy ahead, even though you must endure many trials for a little while. These trials will show that your faith is genuine. It is being tested as fire tests and purifies gold—though your faith is far more precious than mere gold. So when your faith remains strong through many trials, it will bring you much praise and glory and honor on the day when Jesus Christ is revealed to the whole world. You love him even though you have never seen him. Though you do not see him now, you trust him; and you rejoice with a glorious, inexpressible joy. (1 Peter 1:3–8, emphasis mine)
Glorious, inexpressible joy. Laughter that is free from circumstance. Laughter that sometimes makes no sense. Laughter that is one of the most healing and wonderful and mysterious earthly gifts.
And so, I’ll say like Sarah, who held God’s perfectly gentle and joyous laughing promise in her arms, with eyes squinting and shoulders shaking, who knew?