Humanity

This guest post is written by my dear aunt who lives in Pennsylvania with her 6 kiddos. It has put into words the things that I could not find words for these last three days, the real ache of a sweet sister diagnosed with diabetes. So thank you so much for this in a time of need.

Humanity 

I have been feeling so human  lately. 

Insufficient, without hand to sway the circumstances, without ability to hold back the hurt, without power to effect a change in a heart.

Human.

And that humanness has lodged like a fist near my heart. 

There is so much brokenness here.  I can do so little. 

Brokenness, in the body of my niece, who has gone from sturdy to thin and who doesn’t want to eat.  Now we know why.  It doesn’t matter if diabetes doesn’t come wrapped in the same dark shadow as cancer.  It has its own far reaching fingers.  The needle hitting home.  Once.  Twice.  Four times a day.  My sister-in-law, looking at the long miles to go, with insulin and carb ratios chanting a weary cadence in the background.

Brokenness, in the mind of my friend, who is clinging to the things here, the stuff of life that you can physically grab on to.  She is looking for peace, and security, and safety, and doesn’t know how to open her hand and touch Him.  She clutches tightly whatever of life she can find.

Brokenness, in the life of my cousin’s daughter.  Slave to seizures for years upon years.  My cousin, as she cares for her daughter, is slave to the havoc those seizures bring.

I am human.  If I wasn’t, I’d fix this.

And then the swift slap in the face.  There is Someone who isn’t human--who can fix this.  And He hasn’t. 

A hard breath on this one.  If I could, I would.  He could, and He doesn’t. 

Why?

Oh, heart cry to God, “Why wouldn’t You?”

“I have promised to do best.”

“Then, Lord, God!  Do what you promised!

“I am.”

An easing of the choking fist.  The same humanity that prevents me from changing the landscape of the lives around me, prevents me from seeing what He sees. 

You know the feeling when you’re trying to explain something tricky to your six year old?  Maybe how a piece of equipment works, or some complicated story line?  You explain and explain, and suddenly his little face lights up and he says, “Ohhh! That’s how it works!”  I know, that if I could see what He is doing, I would have that same response, that immediate, “Got it!”

That lightbulb reaction of sudden clarity is probably not going to come while I am here.

God knows this.  He knows the barren landscape of walking, not knowing, not understanding, hunched against life’s winds.  And so, to ease the walking, to give light for our feet, He gave us faith. 

Faith is the assurance that the lightbulb moment will come.  Faith gives us rest that our humanity is not where the answer is; our inability is not our undoing; our powerlessness is not a thing of terror.  

Faith says He is God and I am not, and it will be okay.