Okay, it’s a bit overly dramatic, but each time one of our kids has faced surgery and now that I’m once again facing a significant one myself in just a few hours, this is the scene that always comes to mind.
I love all the different ways the tension of approaching the beach is handled.
Trembling. Puking. Praying. Chewing. All of the above.
However you spend those moments before the ramp falls, the fact remains:
You are in a box moving inexorably to a destination chosen for you, and the ramp will fall.
Reminds me of what I’ve read was one of Lincoln’s last dreams: seeing himself on a certain vessel moving across a fog-shrouded sea to an uncertain shore.
I slept most of the day today. I think that’s all that’s missing in that landing craft – someone sleeping.
During my waking moments, I’ve wondered, “What should I be praying for?”
A successful surgery?
If cancer, let it be contained?
Is it just Hezekiah’s prayer – a desperate, tearful plea for more years in the land of the living?
Sometimes we need to be careful what we ask for.
As the ramp falls, oh for the grace to trust, with incisions and pain, diagnosis and prognosis.
Grace and trust. That’s what I’ve settled on.
The clear realization: I’m not piloting anything. What arrogance to think any of us is ever actually piloting anything. It’s His voice that shouts over us, “Clear the ramp, thirty seconds.” Don’t mistake this for fatalism. It’s just the reality of it. We are all carried by currents running more deeply than any can fathom towards uncertain shores that defy all our efforts at mapping them out. Two questions are impressed on me:
How are we treating our fellow travellers as we head towards the beach?
And when the ramp falls, am I ready to trust him with all outcomes?
See you on the beach.