Hanging In There

The God Who Notices Splinters

We have been home from Alaska for one week.

It has been a good week.

Or perhaps I should say it has been a successful week. Those are not always exactly the same thing.

Two prison messages have been delivered at the Chapel of Hope. The first was on the evening we returned. The second was Sunday morning, following one of the roughest bouts of food poisoning I have ever experienced.

Rick’s book is finished. It has been transferred completely from my KDP account into his own. That process took a large portion of yesterday, but it is done. Rick and Pat now have Linda’s contact information, and she has theirs. Linda will complete the cover setup directly with them.

Responsibility for the book—and whatever proceeds come from it—now rests where it belongs.

Mission accomplished.

Meanwhile, life at home has been slowly returning to order.

Tanya sorted, washed, and dried most of the clothes from our trip. I helped a tad. The clothes were folded, most were put away, and another stack went to the cleaners.

The yard crew came and made the yard pretty again. I am watering now because it is summer in Texas, it is hot, and a heat advisory has been posted.

Maybe rain will come next week.

The house is settling.

The yard is settling.

And Tanya and I are still settling.

The trip to Alaska was good in many ways. There was Jessica and Derek’s wedding on the mountain, the gathering of a new extended family, the proofreading of completed books, and the completion of the Alaska Edition of Walk With Me.

A great deal was accomplished.

But the trip was also exhausting. We are discovering that arriving home and recovering from being away are not the same thing.

Then came the food poisoning.

It awakened me in the middle of the night and violently emptied my entire system. Before it was over, I was shaking severely and experiencing chills.

Tanya became my Florence Nightingale.

My angel.

She cared for me while she was still recovering from the trip herself. I spent the day drinking liquids, managed a little yogurt before bedtime, and wondered whether I would be able to fulfill my Sunday morning assignment at Duncan.

But grace came.

I have often described grace as God’s enabling power to do and to be all He has called us to do and to be.

Grace did not pretend that I was strong.

Grace became the strength I did not have.

The message was delivered.

The guys received it well.

And now my body is recovering.

Tanya is also recovering slowly.

Her memory has not returned to where it was before the brain bleed last December. She is reading a little, but she struggles.

Still, she tries.

That word matters.

She tries.

Yesterday, she prepared our meals. That may sound like an ordinary accomplishment to someone else. To us, it was meaningful.

A pastor friend named Stephen recently shared a list about caring for someone with dementia. His own wife is living with that condition.

I want to be clear: I am not saying that Tanya has dementia. Her memory difficulties followed the brain bleed, and we continue to walk through her recovery.

But several things on Stephen’s list touched me deeply.

Do not test someone by asking, “Do you know who I am?”

Do not argue with someone about what is real to them.

If they are sad or anxious, hold their hand and listen.

Do not treat them like a child.

Do not talk about them as though they are not in the room.

Help them continue enjoying the things they have always enjoyed.

Give them music.

Give them laughter.

Give them hugs.

And above all, remember:

They are still the person you know and love.

I reposted Stephen’s message and thanked him.

Some truths belong to more than one diagnosis. They belong to love itself.

Hold her hand and listen.

Protect her dignity.

Do not make every forgotten detail into a test she must pass.

Help her do what she can still do.

Celebrate the meal prepared, the clothes folded, the page read, and the story remembered.

Tanya is still Tanya.

My dear one.

My quiet companion.

My Florence Nightingale.

My angel.

Then another item appeared in my feed. It came from a sermon by Charles Spurgeon titled The Conditions of Power in Prayer.

Spurgeon described a child with a splinter in his finger.

To an adult, a splinter is a small matter. It does not require three surgeons or a great medical consultation.

But to the child, it hurts.

And the child never stops to wonder whether the splinter is too small to bring to his mother. He simply takes his pain to the person he trusts.

The splinter may be small.

The child’s pain is not.

And the mother cares because the child is hers.

Spurgeon’s illustration reminded me of Tanya’s concerns and mine.

Some of our concerns may appear small when compared with the immense suffering in the world.

A forgotten word.

A misplaced object.

A meal that requires more concentration than it once did.

A page that is difficult to read.

A body still weakened from illness.

A stack of clothes waiting to be put away.

A yard thirsty beneath the Texas sun.

Questions about what recovery will look like tomorrow, next month, or next year.

Splinters.

But small troubles can still hurt. And unattended splinters can fester.

Prayer is not reserved only for shipwrecks, earthquakes, and great public crises.

Prayer is also for splinters.

God does not measure our concerns against the suffering of the entire world and then tell us that ours are too small to mention.

He is our Father.

And a good father cares about what hurts his child.

Peter wrote:

“Casting all your care upon Him, for He cares for you.”

—1 Peter 5:7 NKJV

All your care.

Not merely the enormous burdens.

Not only the matters important enough to appear on a church prayer list.

Not just the storms that threaten to sink the boat.

All your care.

The storm.

The splinter.

The memory that will not come.

The body that is slow to recover.

The weariness no one else can see.

The person you love and cannot completely protect.

He cares for us.

That does not mean every difficulty immediately disappears. The food poisoning did not disappear before the assignment. Tanya’s memory did not suddenly return because we prayed. The Texas heat did not retreat because I needed to water the yard.

But grace continues to appear.

Grace looked like enough strength to deliver a message.

Grace looked like Tanya caring for me while she was tired herself.

Grace looked like soup and crackers when my body was finally ready to receive them.

Grace looked like clothes washed, dried, folded, and returned to their places.

Grace looked like a meal Tanya prepared.

Grace looked like a friend sharing wisdom gained through his own difficult journey.

Grace looked like a completed book being placed into the hands of the man whose story it tells.

None of those things is spectacular by itself.

Together, they form the quiet evidence of God’s faithfulness.

Things are still getting done.

Not everything.

Not all at once.

Not always as easily as before.

But the next thing is getting done.

Then the next.

And then another.

Sometimes faithfulness looks less like conquering a mountain and more like putting away one stack of clothes.

Sometimes courage is delivering the assignment while your hands still tremble.

Sometimes love is preparing a meal when memory makes the familiar more difficult.

Sometimes prayer is simply taking the splinter to the Father and trusting that what matters to us matters to Him.

So, how are Tanya and I doing?

We are thankful.

We are recovering.

We are hanging in there.

But perhaps even that description is incomplete.

We are not merely hanging on to Him.

He is holding on to us.

The God who rules the storm also notices the splinter.

The God who gives the assignment also supplies the grace.

The God who carried us to Alaska has carried us home again.

And today, that is enough.

He cares for us.