Born to Be Our Friend

 I want to preface this post with a few qualifying statements.

1.  I haven’t lived very long. Right now, I’m only 28 years old. I’ve had a few experiences in my growing up years. I’ve been married, gone to college, had kids. But I don’t have the wisdom of years.

2.  I haven’t experienced every doubt or every trial. This seems obvious at the outset, but I know it’s hard for people to hear things when someone has had an easy life. I haven’t lost a parent or a child. I don’t have a terminal disease, and none of my family members have serious health problems. I don’t live in poverty, and I have very supportive friends. But I still have experiences with hard things, and I still meet doubt on lonely roads that I feel like I am traveling all by myself. Those feelings, regardless of the trial and regardless of the doubt, might be universal to everybody.

3.  I still have a lot to learn. I often shelve ideas that I have, thinking that if I just wait to share them, they will probably get better with age. But that was probably just a lazy-girl excuse.

Now with those statements out of the way, I want to share an experience I had that is very special to me. I almost feel like the lesson is so simple that it should not have been so profound, nor should it have taken quite so long for me to learn it.

The lesson itself has a sad catalyst – found in the grief and heartbreak of a person who I love.

One day in early December I received a phone call. Before the phone rang, I was feeling proud of myself. The house was clean. I think I had even succeeded in mopping the floor. I was sitting on a stool at my kitchen counter, and my phone was by my hand, so I picked it up on the first ring.

My oldest sister, Brittany, was on the other end of the line. Her voice was breaking as she informed me that our sister’s baby son had stopped breathing during his nap and that he was being rushed to the hospital. There was no other news about his condition yet, but it was very serious.

My brain immediately reacted with disbelief, and that was quickly followed by a sort of odd hopefulness that things would be okay. Like, I literally believed the next phone call would be from my Dad or my sister saying it was all just a misunderstanding, that my nephew was fine, and that everything would go back to normal in a day or two.

Not the Sea of Tiberius, but still a sea. 

It didn’t quite work out that way. Ross, sweet perfect baby that he was, died in the hospital. While his heart had restarted, his brain had been too long without oxygen. He was two months old.

The immediate aftermath was one of coming together. Traveling. The funeral. Tears. Burial. More tears. Trying to create joy in a Christmas season that was overcome with grief.

The long-term aftermath was probably different for everyone.

For me, that experience started a big ball of doubt rolling down the mountain of my faith.

The answers that I learned before then seemed to be hollow, and I did not like them. People would say Ross was too perfect for this world. They might say things happen for a reason. They might even say that we would see him again, that families are forever. It was all I could do not to shout back, “So what? Who cares?”

I did not think those answers were enough compensation for the pain my sister felt for the loss of that perfect little baby. I was angry, and I was confused. I stayed that way for a long time. Around that same time, I started to become discouraged because I had many friends who were falling away from their faith, including people who have been dear companions and inspirations to me as a child. I saw their turmoil and their anger and I wished for God to show them answers. I wondered why he had to make it so hard for people to see. Why wouldn't he make it easier for them to know he was there? Why wouldn't he be there for them? Why wouldn’t he prevent my sister and her husband from the unbearable pain of losing their son?

These questions rolled in my head for months. They ate at me. I would withdraw and think about them all the time. And nothing really seemed like a good enough explanation.

Then one day I was running. I love to run, and this was a longer run – seven miles through a nature preserve close to my house. Instead of turning on my usual upbeat music, I turned on the music production of The Lamb of God, by Rob Gardener, which details the last days of Jesus' ministry here on the earth.

One of the most significant events of that holy week is when Lazarus, a dear friend of Jesus, becomes ill. His sisters send an urgent message asking for Jesus to come and bless Lazarus, clearly hoping that the Master can save their beloved brother.

Jesus does not get there in time, and by the time he does get there, Lazarus has been dead for four days. Hope is gone. And Martha says, "Lord, if thou hadst been here, if thou wouldst have heard us, my brother then would not have died."

Boom. It hit me. She had the same question I did. Why didn't you listen? Why didn't you come when I asked you? Why weren’t you here? You knew what I needed, so why didn't you give it to me?

He raises Lazarus from the dead.

But the understanding kind of kept coming. I kept running, but I might have also been crying at that point. Maybe. 

The final piece of the puzzle came with Peter.

Peter was with Jesus from the beginning. He’s seen the miracles, and he pledges his whole life to Christ just hours before Peter denies even knowing him: “I know not the man.”

He clearly loves his Master, but he is afraid or worried or weak. He doesn't understand the full import of what is happening. And then, just like Lazarus, Jesus appears to be gone. Hope is gone. All is darkness. Why didn’t he save himself? Peter wonders. He had the power. Why didn’t he fix this? Why would he leave us alone? 

They pick up the pieces slowly. They see Jesus risen from the tomb on Easter Sunday. But even then, it’s not the same. The ministry is over, so it’s time to get on with life.

So, Peter goes home and does what he knows how to do: he gathers his nets, sets out with some other apostles, and starts trying to catch some fish. He fishes all night in the sea of Tiberius, and he catches nothing. Peter knows how to catch fish, but for some reason, he is always coming up with an empty net.

Then, Jesus comes and stands on the shore. He comes and commands them to cast in again. They do so, and they don’t even know that it is Jesus.

They cannot pull up the net because of how many fish are in it.

This is now the single most important image in all of scripture for me. Because as soon as Peter pulls up that net, John knows. He knows it is Jesus: “It is the Lord.” Peter is so overcome with joy that he jumps into the water to swim to him. Everything is healed. The night is passed. The net is full. The day of denial is literally water under the bridge. 

I suddenly realized what faith is, and what joy can be. Faith is being willing to cast in your net again and again, even though it comes up empty. Martha and Mary cast in their net, asking for the Lord to come because Lazarus was sick. And it seemed like that net was empty because he died. Jesus did not get there in time. But still, they cast in again, "Even now, I know that if thou wilt ask of God, what thou asketh he'll give thee." Lazarus rose up from the tomb, and the net was fuller than they ever could have believed possible.

Ross was my first really empty net. That net will be full someday because of Jesus.

My questions and doubts are empty nets. I came home from my run that day and I said to my husband, "I'm willing to keep believing because I know that even if my belief seems empty now, God can make it full. I'm just going to keep trying, even though I don't have as much understanding as I would like to have.” True faith is being willing to cast your net. The fish will come, and some of those fish may even have silver in their mouths.

I realized how the power of Christ’s resurrection is more than just restoring physical bodies. It's restoring hope after hope has died. It's bringing back joy when it seems happiness could never be possible. It's resurrecting calm assurance in the place of crippling fear. It’s erasing anger and replacing it with mercy, with temperance.

This season, I'm just so grateful for that profound image. The net full of fish. In all our trials, he is born to be our friend. Merry Christmas.