Remembering Hope

This morning, I ran three miles. This doesn't seem terribly impressive when laid side by side with the fact that I ran a half marathon only a little over a year ago. But I've been dealing with a running injury since this summer that has left me limping after the kids like a one legged duck. So the fact that I was running at all (even if my foot still doesn't feel like it should) was kind of a huge deal for me, even if I end up paying for it tomorrow (as is typically the case).

Here's the thing about this injury: I actually went to a doctor for it. I avoid the doctor like the plague. He stuck a needle in the bottom my foot. That did not feel nice. He made me change my shoes. The new shoes were expensive. He gave me stretches that I do religiously. That was the nicest thing he told me to do. He made me take off weeks that turned into months from running. Somehow I didn't go insane. But I did it all. It didn't work. I was still limping around pathetically.

So I spent a lot of time praying for healing. And I borrowed the Man's Hoka running shoes (the benefit of having large feet is borrowing shoes from your husband). And I read books about changing my running form. And I only ran tiny increments. And I changed my yoga class. And I took a spin class. And it still hurt. But maybe a little less. So I kept going.

All of which to mean that this morning, as I ran and the sun rose in its shimmering splendor of flame, I prayed and thought and listened to my foot. And I pondered the question that I've been asking for years, even though I know it's not necessarily the right question: why is there healing and then there is not?

I was asking it about my foot, true, but mostly I was asking about it for the brokenness I see around me. For the shattered relationships, for those battling depression and anxiety, for those caught in alcoholism and escapism, for the ones trying to get control of their anger or rise above their own jealousy or not be controlled by self pity. Why is there healing and then there is not for the ones of us who know where we are struggling, are striving to seek healing in whatever way we can, and are praying with every ounce of faith and fight that we have in us?

And then I asked myself this: are we just plot devices in God's cosmic book? Does He play with us as characters the way I do mine when I write? Hmm, it might be fun to pit her against ten thousand assailants, or maybe I'll let him encounter his deepest fears just to see what will happen, or this character is losing my attention, I think I'll ramp up the conflict a little or possibly kill her off.

I watched the sun rise and thought about how God not only set our tiny solar system in motion (ensuring that earth rotates at just the right angle and speed, providing us with the perfect distance from the sun so that we don't burn with heat or freeze with ice, placing us in our insignificance out on one stretching arm of the Milky Way), but keeps it moving and stable, in spite of all the odds. I thought about how insignificant an ant is to me, how thoughtlessly I crush it to keep from getting bitten. And I wondered: is that all we are to Him? Ants to be crushed?

But then I remembered the truth, I remembered what I can hold on to: that our God is infinitely huge, and that in comparison with Him, I am insignificant, but that somehow, for no reason that I, who crush the ant without a second thought, can even understand, somehow He cares for me. Not as a supporting character who could get killed off so that the audience places emotional import on the hero's victory, but as me. And He cared enough about me to be the one who died to save me so that He could ensure that I would spend forever with Him.

So when there is not healing, do I remember this? Do I remember that I still matter? Do I remember that the suffering have significance in God's economy? Do I remember that His purpose is always for my good and that just as I appear to be only an ant compared to God's glory, so this suffering is only a second compared to eternity--and still God chooses to use it to draw me nearer to Him, still he refuses to waste it because He cares for me? Do I remember?

Do I remember that the God who set the stars in place has not forgotten me in my suffering, whether it is a hurt foot or a broken heart, a damaged soul or a marriage in distress, an insurmountable obstacle or a terminal diagnosis? Do I remember that I am remembered? And that I am not alone? Do I remember that He is in control and not callously laughing in the heavens as I suffer but using this for purposes I cannot imagine at this time?

I want to remember. Because sometimes there is not healing, but that doesn't mean there is only despair.

And this is hope.

I thought this was a better option
than a sweaty post-run selfie.