Explaining faith

Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.

Strangely, answering the standard greeting phrase "How are you doing?" in a single word (or sentence!) is harder than explaining faith to someone who doesn't believe. Although I cannot answer "Fine" or "All is well" when asked how things are going, there is hope in my heart, despite the human impossibility. I am learning to live day-by-day; an art I wish I'd striven for years ago, but then I was still struggling so to be in control.

Ishtar

Peace

There are different times for everything.

There is a time to be joyful, and a time to be sad.
There is a time to laugh, and a time to cry.

This should be a time of darkness,
and similar situations have previously tormented my soul.
This time however, it's all different.

I feel neither fear nor despair, for there is light in the darkness.
There is peace and there is joy.
There is fulfillment in my heart,
and every time I get back from my mother's hospital room,
I feel overwhelmed with gratitude and hope.

I cannot really describe it -
it is not something I have done through my own power.
It is a gift, and I am so immensely grateful for it.

I know that there are many people out there
who look at my mother's situation and feel despair.
Many who think that we should be angry,
resentful and bitter towards God.
I do not feel any of those things.
My mother is at peace, she is full of hope,
and eagerly awaiting her promised gift.
Although we do not always get the promises that we want,
He always keeps the one he gives.

But no matter what happens in the future,
I do not believe that life can get any better than this.
I never expected my soul to feel such peace in such a dark hour,
but it does.

There is joy and there is happiness.
There is gratitude and there is love.
There is hope.

And all that in abundance.

We have all reason to grieve,
but there is no room left for that in our hearts.
How could my soul do anything but rejoice??

Ishtar

Trusting the impossible

My mother and I, Cyprus 1983

Once again, I don't exactly know what to say, but the difference between tonight and two posts ago is that this time, I'm not feeling down. Things have been looking very gloomy indeed and my mother is getting weaker by the day. Today, she could hardly walk and her body was aching everywhere. It seems that this cancer is living a life of its own, because this is not the forecast we were given eight weeks ago. Although I felt that old panic resurface when my mother talked about her immense headache and the possibility of the cancer having spread to her brain (she has been correct in her predictions so far, so there's little use in trying to tell oneself that the odds are against it and it would be far too early according to the doctor's predictions), I also felt a new kind of clear-sightedness take hold as my sister and I went for a walk and talked things through.

There is a battle going on, for someone is desperate to have her "out of the way". It wasn't enough to have her banned from Africa and sentence her to a life away from what she held so dearly - for that was the prospect after her heart failure evacuation in January 2005: Never to go back to Niger, West Africa.

Then her cancer was discovered. It was said to be a very aggressive one and the doctors talked about it returning within a few years. Not an if, but a when - that when however being in a few years' time. Four months after completed treatment however, it was already back, having spread throughout her skeleton and to her lungs. The good news then was that skeleton cancer is so slow, and that there wouldn't be much pain involved. Well, the doctors have been wrong there as well. This is a very speedy thing which is being fuelled for a reason far greater than I can understand.

Now, that pestering little voice I was talking about two posts ago has been proclaiming lately that her time is up and that from now on, everything we do for her is useless. She will never get to go home to Niger again and we might as well back up the project and leave. However, there is a different song singing in my heart. It doesn't say anything about the what, the when or the why, but it tells me to where to put my trust. It tells me to believe in the impossible, and to rejoice, even though times are hard. And I will.

Ishtar

The art of walking on water

It's been a long time since I was down. Despite my mother's illness, May was a month of hope and I had a heavenly song of joy singing in my heart. June was a month of family reunion and celebration. Now is a time of... I don't really know, for sure. Internal battle, perhaps?

There is a curtain of melancholy lying like a heavy cloud over my head, that someone insists on pulling down in order to dim my view. I've been battling that curtain for a few days now, and there has also been a touch of despair and anxiety lurking in my shadows. My mother is hurting, and it makes my heart bleed not to be able to do anything for her. There is nothing in my power that can ease her pain.

A little voice is stubbornly proclaiming that the good times have come to an end, and wants to bring me back into a state of mourning. I know that voice and I care little for the insinuation, but a bleeding heart makes an easy prey for despair. Hence the curtain-battle. But I have all reason to hope, even though my heart is being a bit resistant right now.

I wanted to write something deep about Niger tonight, but I have no concentration for that. Instead, I will tell share something that happened on the 19th of May. Something I've been needing to remind myself of for the past few days.

My mother was woken at 06.15 am by a voice, saying: "Bettan, you are to receive a great gift." Her first thought was, "Have I been healed?" but she hadn't, not then at least. A little while later however, my brother and his wife came to tell her her that they were expecting another baby - her second grandchild. That was indeed one of the greatest gifts anyone could possibly give her.

I'm not easily moved to tears, but when my mother told me this, I had tears of joy. My mother could not have been given a greater gift than to know that she will have another grandchild, but above all, it is was the fact that God sent a messenger to tell her that moved me to tears. Somehow, he just knew that she needed to know from him before she heard it from anyone else.

The funny thing is that things have been looking very gloomy lately with my mother's health deteriorating day by day. And yet, I am full of hope because God is with us and my heart is singing a song of joy. How could I want life to be otherwise when I have peace in my heart and overwhelming joy and thankfulness? How could I be anything but grateful?

I don't care about the outcome because I have a hand to reach out to, and I will squeeze that hand tight and savor every minute that we have together. And I want to live my life wholeheartedly and invest every day as if it might the last.

Ishtar

I could write pages on my current state of melancholy, but I know, deep inside, that it's all about having faith. It's not the rain outside that brings darkness to my soul. It's the constant battle of daring to venture into the unknown, choosing to follow that whisper in my heart that gives me peace.

Even though I walk through the shadows of death, I fear no evil, for you are my comfort.

Although I call it a battle of curtains, it's actually all about daring to walk on water. I was running on the surface a few weeks ago, eager to reach my goal and to follow my heart's desire. Now all of a sudden my legs are made of concrete and the impossibility of it all is making me sink.

I know where to find comfort, and I know whose face I will seek. I know who carries me when my soul is weak and my legs are limb and even when my heart is bleeding and my tears have run dry. I know who takes over for me when I am losing the battle of curtains. I just need to remind myself to actually go and ask for help.

Copyright Eden Foundation 2006

Ishtar