PHOTO: MARY VAN BALEN
The official said to him, “Sir, come down before my little boy dies.” Jesus said to him, “Go; your son will live.” The man believed the word that Jesus spoke to him and started on his way. As he was going down, his slaves met him and told him that his child was alive.So he asked them the hour when he began to recover, and they said to him, “Yesterday at one in the afternoon the fever left him.” The father realized that this was the hour when Jesus had said to him, “Your son will live.”
Jn 4, 49-53a
Before assuring the official that his son would live, Jesus had rebuked him for his need for a sign in order to believe. As it turned out, the man believed before he had the sign: his son’s recovery.
I am not as trusting, though I try. My biggest problem is trusting God with my young adult offspring. When children are young, parents have more control. Their words are truth, their instructions eventually followed. Young adults have seen their parents’ clay feet, know they are full of misinformation as well as good intentions, and listen to suggestions with appropriate skepticism.
This is frustrating, especially when a young adult who once barely filled her mother’s cradling arms is facing challenging times and difficult decisions.
I wish, after placing my children in Jesus’ care, I could turn and walk away like the man in John’s gospel. The official pleaded with Jesus for the life of his son, and when Jesus told him not to worry, the man didn’t. He simply began to walk home.
The scene plays differently in my life. I hesitate. Restate by request to make sure God understands. I turn to leave and remember something else I should say. God may be God, but I am a mother. Eventually I make my way home, with a few glances backward to see what God is doing. I also don’t usually receive the same affirmation the official did when his servants rush up to tell him the good news: His son has recovered. My “signs” are slow to come, if they come at all, and the more time that passes without a “sign,” the more I find myself wondering about prayer and if it is just me talking to myself.
I grow weary with worry, emotionally worn out. I want to shake sense into my daughter and yell at God for lack of action. This is where a good Psalm of Lament would come in handy. I could pray the ranting, cursing words with feeling, and question God about the Divine whereabouts when it was most needed.
At least that is what the situation looks like from my point of view: Need, pleading, but no one close enough to hear or inclined to do anything about it. I can’t see the whole picture, and I desperately want to know it all turns out fine. I want to know that my children and I eventually reach the center of our labyrinths even if the journey is long and filled with countless turns and backtracking.
I want to believe what Julian of Norwich says so simply: All will be well and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well.”
Lord, I want to believe. Help my unbelief!
© 2010 Mary van Balen
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