Sneezes

Jeremy sneezes out the car window when we’re driving. He insists that this is normal, but I’ve never seen anyone else do it. His sneezes come without warning, and in the car they seem ridiculously loud and amusing. Maybe they amplify in the confined space, I don’t know. We’ll be driving along, and suddenly he thrusts his head out the window with an aggressive sneeze that would knock over a backyard full of small children. Every time I dissolve into a fit of giggles.  

One time, after such a sneeze, Samuel sincerely asked from the back seat, “Daddy, why are you mad at the trees?”  

We all laughed. A content family, enjoying each other. I remember wishing the moment would last forever. 

Samuel was pleased with himself for adding to the occasion. In typical little-boy fashion he repeated his joke at every opportunity. Daddy would sneeze, I giggle uncontrollably, and Samuel proudly states that daddy is mad at the trees. Our family joke.

Now when Jeremy sneezes in the car, I smile, but there isn’t any laughter. We share a glance, then stare vacantly out the windows, trying again to absorb the loss of the little voice that is supposed to deliver the punch line.

Sunday morning we headed to church. Jeremy sneezed. I startled like it was a gunshot and almost jumped out of my skin. Jeremy felt terrible, but it wasn’t his fault. I tried to calm down my panic the rest of the way to church.

Apparently my trauma in the car is not limited to reacting to other drivers on the road.  

Those satisfied moments I wanted to last forever seem so long ago.  

God in the Good and Bad Times

I wonder if we set ourselves up to be disappointed with God.  

A friend’s son was in a car accident last weekend. His car rolled down a hill, and amazingly, he was not seriously hurt. The car was destroyed. They are shaken, and will be for a long time. It was terrible.  

I don’t begrudge their miracle. I am rejoicing with them, sincerely. Every life saved on the road is a good thing. And I like to think that God’s angels held his head as that car rolled, guarding him the whole way. 

Everyone is saying that God is good, because he didn’t get hurt.

We praise God for being good and protecting us when we get what we want. We thank him when the disease is cured and when the relationship is restored. An awful accident, the loss of a car, these things are put in perspective because the most important, the people we love, are safe.  

What about God when the worst happens? If God doesn’t protect a life, if God doesn’t rescue us in our situation in the way we think we desperately need, what then? Is God good then?  

My friend will be socially “allowed” to talk about her sons accident. We like to hear dramatic stories when they have good endings. Years from now they can bring it up with friends, at work, even to strangers. No one will shift uncomfortably or change the subject. They can tell the story again and again, how God spared his life in that frightening crash. They have an opportunity to share God’s faithfulness. That is a good thing.

But the accident involving my family makes people squirm, because my son died. Thinking about it is frightening in too many ways. It’s overwhelming to hear the details, and some people think I should be moving on by now.  

The way we react to these things as a culture takes away our examples of faith in hard times. If we are afraid to talk about the worst heartache, how can we learn from each other? On a personal level, I’ve never closely watched someone walk through a valley of profound suffering, wrestling with why’s and doubts, and seen them deepen in their faith. I’ve read books about such people, but I don’t have any examples in my life. The thing is, I know people who have gone through tragedy, and I’m sure some of them have a stronger faith and confidence in God’s goodness because of it. We keep these things private, especially when we’re in the middle of the messy parts. In some circles it’s criticized as less spiritual to struggle. We are left to learn about suffering from books, the occasional testimony, and a few honest, questioning Psalms.  

“God is good” doesn’t come easily after the world falls apart, the way it does when we see desirable things happen. Sometimes it takes battle to get there. We have to change the way we see life, the way we see ourselves, and even the way we see God. Suffering rips us out of life’s comfortable boxes, and we realize God doesn’t fit in the convenient spot we had for him either.  

I wonder what this would look like if we were open about suffering. What if we discussed doubts without shame, and exposed the struggles of our hearts? What would we learn if we could look at grief without cringing, without the urge to cover it over and quickly make it feel better? How would it stretch us to face raw fears, and then share the process with each other? Not just the “God is good” outcome, but the long, hard journey of getting there? And not just talk about it when it’s resolved and we know the ending, but vulnerability in those times when we still can’t see?  

I imagine we would have a better foundation to stand on when suffering hits. Our understanding of God’s trustworthiness would be bigger than circumstances, and our faith would be deeper than wishful thinking. Still in need of refining, for sure, but growing beyond theory through the things we have witnessed in each other. Shame wouldn’t build walls around our hearts and keep us separated. We would be less likely to feel disappointed with God, because we know, we’ve seen, God’s mysterious ways where there are no happy endings.  

It only takes a little light to see when our eyes are used to the dark.