How Great Is Our God

The last time I ever saw Luke alive, a hospital volunteer was singing worship songs room to room for the patients. At her bidding, my family gathered around Luke’s bed as he lay in a coma and sang “How Great Is Our God” all together. In the middle of the song, Luke started throwing up, and the nurses rushed us all away. I never saw him again--he passed away shortly thereafter, gone from earth.

I’ve hated that memory, broken at the irony of it all. "How great is our God?" I have wanted to scoff with howling tears. He is certainly not great, or He would have done something. He would have cared. He would have healed. He would have acted. Or, at bare minimum, He would have minimized the irony of the situation and not taunted me with that last paradoxical memory. He wouldn’t allow every spiritual event to build to its “climax” with that song—causing the trauma to rush back in at the exact moment I pray to feel His love, bringing with it all the aching, gaping hurt of loss and the flooding tears streaming down.

Similarly, in a parallel vein, there’s no place--no object more dark and bitter in my life--than that of a single, solitary tree all alone in the night. It’s the place in which Luke’s life practically ended seven years ago today as his car rammed into a tree: a place of loss, of darkness, of fear, of pain. It is a symbol that I hate, that I avoid, that I do everything in my power to forget again and again.

At the same time, this, here: there is no place--no object dearer to my life--than that of a single, solitary tree all alone in the night. It’s the place in which my Savior hung on a cross to redeem my life, to bring forgiveness and redemption and justice, all together, wrapped up in glory. It is a symbol that I love, that I cling to, that I build my entire life around with every breath I take.

A tree bringing never-ending loss. A tree bringing infinite hope. I’ve hated this parallel for a long time, angered at the irony of it all too. Is God cruel, taunting, vindictive? "Does He know my hurt and exploit it still?" I’ve wrestled.

My response to “How Great Is Our God" has varied over the last seven years. Sometimes I’ve stood with my arms crossed, angry. Sometimes I’ve left the room. Sometimes I’ve stood with clenched hands and forced myself to sing the words. Sometimes I’ve just cried. I’m not exactly at the “praising God for it” part yet. I don’t jump up and down, not yet. Maybe that will come—maybe it won’t till I get to heaven, sing the song standing next to Luke himself as we worship Jesus together. I’m not quite sure.

But in the wrestling, I’ve wondered this--say it hesitantly, whisper it here: could it be, just maybe, that God actually built the symbols of the trees in my life so similarly as a reminder to my own heart that even the darkest places of loss can actually be redeemed when put next to the glory of the cross? Could it be that all that stands for brokenness and fear in my life is actually overcome by all that stands for good and glory and hope? That even this can be transformed by the cross? That nothing is too far gone, too far lost, too far broken for Jesus to redeem? Could it all be true?

Oh, I hope so. I think so, maybe. On my best days, I know so, deep in my bones. I could tease out all the ways God has been good here in this tragedy, but honestly, I don’t think God needs me to sugarcoat His story. I don’t have to minimize the pain, paint it all pretty. Luke’s loss has been awful. And yet—with a deep acknowledgement of the hurt but a willingness to leave the door open for good—could it be that God is still great? Above it all, in it all, holding us here still? Yes, yes, I believe. He meets us in our broken places, in our hurt. "He is with us, even here!" Christmas just reminded.

And so, in this time of wrestling, seven years since Luke’s accident, I only know this: God has met me here. As Katie Davis writes, “God did not let [me] go. Slowly, hesitantly, I [have] found the frail frame of my faith being wrenched away and replaced by a deep understanding that [has] marked me for life: I see God in the wrestling.” I see God as I wrestle through the song, “How Great Is Our God.” I see Him in the symbol of a tree, in the death and the life interwoven together, in the representation that nothing is too far broken for healing again. I see Him in my story—and I see Him in yours. I believe, someday, we will stand before His throne and earnestly sing anew, “How Great Is Our God”--with all brokenness restored, without hesitancy, with raised hands and lifted hearts. Until then, we wrestle, and we don’t stop wrestling, and we wrestle even when it’s hard. But, we wrestle only with this hope: that when that day comes, it will all be true, every single part of it. We will surely sing it together, all as one, "How Great Is Our God!” What a day that will be.

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It’s been seven years since Luke’s accident. I’ve made it a tradition of sorts to share what I am learning about his life and death each year when this season comes. Thanks for walking in this space with me. Luke, I love you a whole lot. I miss you!

Originally posted December 28, 2017