Category Archives: Hearing from God

I think I can. I think I can.

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Most of us remember an inspiring childrens book entitled “The Little Engine that Could.” It championed the attribute of stick-to-itiveness, even when the odds were formidable, such as having to climb over a mountain while pulling a heavy load.

Although the first published version of this story was part of a Sunday school paper in 1906, at least four authors are on record as having written it. But way back in the first part of the Old Testament, God had already authored the tale, and not just authored it but also offered to fortify our can-do effort with the strength to get a difficult job done.

In a Deuteronomy passage, Moses, the revered leader of several million people over 40 year’s time, had died just short of entering their new homeland. In these verses the people were recounting specific blessings he’d spoken to each of the 12 tribes before he passed away. He knew battles were coming and had done his best to encourage and prepare them, confident that  God’s abilities exceeded those of every enemy.

Last fall, as Nate’s health made its rapid plunge toward complete incapacitation and finally death, I was fearful I wouldn’t be able to handle the unknown “mountains” ahead in caring for him. I’d heard stories of uncontrollable pain, abusive words coming from patients, horrible bathroom messes and frightening death scenes. Would I make it?

Then I opened a letter from our friend Caroline in England. Although her words of love and kindness meant a great deal, the real power was in the few words of Scripture she’d written next to her signature. They reminded me of the little blue engine who eagerly wanted to succeed, even after others had failed, others who were better suited for the job than he was.

I felt ill-suited for my job, too, but I wanted to succeed, to be everything Nate needed me to be, no matter how distasteful, agonizing or sad it became. And most of all I wanted to remain single-minded to the very end, putting Nate ahead of everything else. But I had no idea how I would have the know-how or strength to conquer whatever might come.

But amazingly, as each day passed, the Lord supplied whatever was needed, enabling me to say, “I think I can. I think I can.” God astounded us again and again with his creative provisions, never running out of new ways to come to our aid. And there isn’t any set of crisis-circumstances God can’t handle. He is the enabler; we are the I-think-I-cans.

At the end of the story of “The Little Engine that Could,” the blue train slides with ease and joy along the track on the down-side of the mountain, having done what the other engines thought was impossible. Smiling at his accomplishment, he says, “I thought I could. I thought I could.”

And that’s where our storyline breaks from that of the blue engine. Although we, too, look back with amazement, we’re looking at God’s accomplishments, not our own. It’s “We knew God could. We knew God would.”

“As your days, so shall your strength be. The eternal God drives out the enemy before you.” (Deuteronomy 33:25b,27b)

Meltdown

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I knew I shouldn’t have done it. After all, it was a Sunday.

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I’d been by myself at the house this morning, unusual for a Sunday, and even though I was up and ready, it crossed my mind to skip church. No one would miss me, and I wouldn’t have to sit alone. But that sounded like going backwards, so I drank the last of my coffee and headed out. Despite wearing a skirt, I rode my bike rather than walk the six blocks, because I was late.

As I pedaled toward the church, I could hear a woman’s voice being piped from the pulpit to outdoor speakers. She was weeping as she asked for prayer to handle a challenge she was facing. Parking my bike near an out-of-the-way bush, I felt ashamed of my self-centeredness, having temporarily forgotten that no one is immune from serious pain.

By the end of the service, I felt weepy and headed away quickly, talking to no one, anxious to get back to the shelter of the cottage. Although our family tradition has always been to eat out on Sundays, a bowl of oatmeal sounded just right. But I should have known better than to accompany it with the hard-copy stack of emails from the early days of Nate’s cancer.

This stack of 8 X 11 papers, which I’ve tried to read several times,  approaches the sacred to me, and a sad Sunday seemed like the right time to read a few more. I was missing Nate, and by looking back into those days when he was still alive, it was almost like a visit with him.

The 50-plus emails in my stack were all dated between Sept. 23, the day after Nate’s diagnosis, and Sept. 29 – six days of shock and hurt. When the girls had printed them out at my request, some of my own responses were still attached to many of them. It was one of my own paragraphs that made me burst into tears over my oatmeal. The following lines were written to Linnea on Sept. 24, two days into Nate’s cancer:

“Tonight as we were driving home from Chicago (me driving), Papa was beginning to share something about our family, but when he said the phrase ‘Remember when the kids were little and…’ he broke down and wept. I don’t know what it was, but I think he was thinking back to those happy days and one of you doing or saying something cute, and thinking of these difficult days now and the passing of time, and all of it mixed in together for him.”

Dabbing at my mascara, I set the stack of emails aside once again, wondering if I’d ever be able to get through them. I want so badly to re-read what our precious friends and relatives had sent in the beginning, knowing their words and verses had been chosen with care to encourage and support. They might hold even more power now.

All of a sudden I had an overpowering urge to look at Nate’s wedding ring. I ran upstairs and pulled the tiny green velvet bag from my dresser drawer and took out his gold band, hugging it and crying with longing for my man. It’s not easy when the only thing left to hug is a husband’s cold ring.

I took a gold chain off its hook, the one with the heart pendant that had Nate’s name engraved on it, and slipped his ring onto the same chain. Suddenly I couldn’t make sense of what seemed like a contradiction: God is good, but this is bad. Although I’ve accepted his goodness many times over in recent months, today it wouldn’t compute.

Immediately a favorite quote came to mind, and I knew right away Who was rushing toward me with understanding and comfort:

“If you can explain what God is doing, God is probably not doing it.” (Dr. Bob Cook)

In other words, because I can’t explain Nate’s cancer, his death and our grieving, I can be certain the whole thing IS of God, and I know he wouldn’t have taken Nate as he did without an excellent reason. God doesn’t expect me to understand his ways. (Both he and I know I never could.) He only asks me to believe he knows best… for Nate… and for me.

And I do.

“ ‘My thoughts are nothing like your thoughts,’ says the Lord. ‘And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine. For just as the heavens are higher than the earth, so my ways are higher than your ways and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.’ ” (Isaiah 55:8-9)

Trusting 100%

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It was God’s delightful idea to make miniature people and send them to bigger people to raise, a phenomenal plan. And he intends for us big people to learn a great deal from the little ones.

To be a child is to be something spectacular, a person who exhibits innocence, submission, trustfulness. These characteristics are especially true in one-year-olds. I’m privileged to have two of them among my grandchildren, Nicholas, from England, and Skylar, from Florida. And it’s been my joy for the last couple of weeks to have Skylar staying at my address (with her family).

I’ve never known a more enthusiastic person than this one-year-old. She’s up for anything, which includes trying strange foods, meeting new people, petting any animal or swimming in Lake Michigan. When others are hesitant, Skylar is eager.

After she leaves on Monday, I’ll miss her toddler voice and the many clever things she says. Today as I helped her out of her car seat, she cooed at me and said, “Hi, precious Midgee.” How can you beat that?

There are unnumbered good things about Skylar that she shares with all one-year-olds, and having 100% trust in those around her is one of the best. This is a significant charge for the rest of us, to make sure we’re 100% trustworthy in our relationships with them.

The other day Klaus was enjoying Skylar at the beach, asking her if she wanted “to fly.” Of course she was up for it, and he began throwing her as high as his arms could fling her. She squealed with laughter, never doubting for an instant that he’d catch her securely every time. Klaus ran out of energy long before Skylar ran out of wanting to be tossed.

The picture we snapped that day exemplifies perfect trust. Skylar’s face is devoid of worry, and she’s able to take pleasure in an event that actually has the potential to turn out badly for her. She knows how it feels to get splashed in the face or get water up her nose but isn’t thinking of those “what ifs.” Instead she’s trusting all things will work together for good. Haven’t we heard that someplace before?

I am one of God’s children. Hopefully you are, too. The Christian’s relationship to him is based on trusting that he knows what’s best for us, without injecting doubt by unnecessary “what ifs.” We trust the Gospel to be true (see John 3:16) and strive to base our lives on trusting God the Father and Jesus the Son, one-on-one. But there’s the rub: we strive.

We think, “What if he looks away and doesn’t catch me? What if I plunge under water? What if he doesn’t rescue me in time? What if he catches me but the landing hurts? What if I’m too heavy for him to hold me tight?”

The “what if” going through my mind at the moment is, “What if we could all trust God like one-year-olds trust us?”

We’d probably all know how to fly.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart. Do not depend on your own understanding. Seek his will in all you do, and he will show you which path to take.” (Proverbs 3:5-6)