my job

My job, to pray. I prayed. It would be impossible to count the number of times I prayed, the minutes and hours I begged and pleaded. I prayed. We prayed. It would be impossible to count the number of people who prayed and fasted and bequeathed on our behalf. Yes, we prayed.

My job, to believe. I believed. I imagined countless times that he lifted his head, removed his life support, arose from his bed, walked throughout our home on his own and spoke. The greatest moment in this imagery was the moment when he spoke. To hear his voice again...usually at this moment, I broke down and couldn't continue imagining—the utter joy was too much for me. I was too overwhelmed by the mere thought of how absolutely incredible God's healing would be.

Yes, I prayed and I believed.

I did my job. Did God do His? I cannot begin to understand God and His ways. Why when he was fully capable to heal, did He not? I'm clueless. But this is His job. He is the healer, Jehovah Rapha. He chose the name, not me. So did he do his part? I have no idea. Am I satisfied with the outcome? Absolutely not.

But that's not my job. My job is to pray and believe. I did my job and that's what I'm accountable for. I will stand before God and I can say 'I did my job.' And God will speak for himself. That's not my job.

(I wrote this September 20, 2014 as I processed deep disappointment and resigned myself to stop asking why. I know that some may think it is irreverent to discuss God's job as if I'm assuming that I get to write His job description. The irony is intentional, and I am choosing to err on the side of authenticity.)

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