What would be worse than not getting your deepest desire?
Getting it, and losing it.
But what if I knew God does miracles—things impossible for a mere human to even imagine? What if I had already experienced that in my life? Would I be so focused on the tragedy that I forgot the God of the impossible?
“What can be done for her?” Elisha asked. Gehazi said, “Well, she has no son.” … The child grew and one day he went out to his father who was with the reapers. “My head! My head!” he said to his father. His father told a servant, “Carry him to his mother.” … The boy sat on her lap until noon, and then he died. She went up and laid him on the bed of the man of God, then shut the door and went out. … When she reached the man of God at the mountain, she took hold of his feet. … He, [Elisha] went in, shut the door on the two of them and prayed to the Lord. Then he got on the bed and lay upon the boy, mouth to mouth, eyes to eyes, hands to hands. … The boy sneezed seven times and opened his eyes.” 2 Kings 4:14-37; NIV
Grandmother hasn’t known me for the last few days. Sometimes, she thinks I’m am Bithiah. Sometime she calls me by my mother’s name. At first it scared me, but Mama said she was just thinking of all the people she loved, like in a dream. So, I put a pillow under my dress and tried to walk and talk just like big, slow-moving Bithiah or put on Mama’s shawl while I did the mending.
Today, oh the joy! Today, when I went into Grandma’s room, she knew me.
“Well, now, child. What questions do you have for me today?”
I shrugged and hung my head. There was something I wanted to know.
“Asking is part of learning, especially about those things that are closest to your heart. Talk to God; He already knows but is waiting for you to ask. I had to learn this lesson the hard way.”
“To ask for a baby?”
“And after that—to ask for him back. Did I ever tell you about the time your father died when he was a little boy?”
Of course, she had. I had heard all of my grandma’s stories over and over. This was my very favorite.
“Everyone was out in the fields threshing or at home making food for the workers. Your father was just a boy, but he was bored. He wanted to be out in the field where things were happening, not stuck in the house with a bunch of women who had no time for him.”
His father said, ‘Let the boy come.” So, I let the boy go, warning him about the hear, but what excited child listens? They don’t think anything will ever happen to them, and so he ran around poking his nose into everything until he was ill. His father sent him home to me.”
“Why did Grandpa just send him with a servant? Why didn’t he take him home if he was so sick?”
“He was busy with the harvest, and thought your father just needed a little rest and some mothering. He had no idea…”
“But he was very sick, wasn’t he? And, then he died.” I told this part for her; it always made her so sad.
“Yes, he died.” She reached up with one gnarled hand and rubbed her forehead, back and forth, up and down. She looked right at me, but her eyes were focused on that time so long ago. I was afraid she might start dreaming again.
“Grandma.” I took her hands in mine and kissed her forehead. “It’s okay, Grandma.”
She blew out a shaky breath, then reached out for my hands. She opened her eyes and looked right in my face. “This is what I want you to remember, child. It was awful, but that was how I learned to ask and to believe that God would answer even an impossible request.”
I looked at her in surprise. She had not told me the story this way before.
“I knew my boy was dying. I held him close, smoothed back his hair, wiped his face and body with cool rags, sang to him talked to him and held his hand. Nothing worked. He died on my lap, and I just kept rocking him back and forth. I knew he was dead, but I didn’t want it to be true, so I kept on singing and rocking my dear, dead son. All of a sudden, I had such a clear thought! My son, here, on my lap, was impossible already. If God gave him to me when it seemed it would never happen, then God could give him back to me. I needed to ask this time. And I needed to believe from the bottom of my heart that God would do the impossible again.”
Grandma’s eyes were closed, and her hands were no longer squeezing mine tightly. “Don’t stop now!” I thought. She still sat quietly, so I brought my face close to hers and asked, “Is that when you brought him up to Elisha’s room?”
“Hmm?” Grandma’s eyes flickered, and I bent closer to hear her quiet murmurs.
“I put him on the bed and shut the door and went to the mountain to bring Elisha back with me. It was so hot, and so far, but I knew God would answer me through the prophet. I threw myself at his feet crying and begging, ‘You must come!’
“And the prophet came home with you.” Usually the story ended with, “And God gave your daddy back to me.” This time Grandma had more to tell me.
“I just remember sitting outside the room, waiting. You would think I would be frantic and crying, like I had been on the donkey going to fetch God’s prophet, but I was calm. I knew God heard me. I knew Elisha would come out of that room, and everything would be all right somehow. I wanted God to do the impossible—to bring my son to life, again. Oh, how I wanted him to be alive! But maybe that would not be God’s answer this time, and He would instead help me to live without my boy. I didn’t know! I just leaned against the wall, scarf over my head, and waited for God.”
The tears had stopped flowing, and I wiped her cheeks with my scarf. “Oh, Grandma.”
“God breathed my boy’s life back into him through Elisha’s mouth, and he grew up to be a fine man, a fine man.”
Grandma coughed then, and choked, and coughed some more. I tried to help her take a drink, but she pushed the cup away.
“Not now, Bithiah,” she whispered. “Not now.” Then she lay back on her pillows and went to sleep.
I wonder…
Have you ever pleaded with God for something, and His answer was no? Have you been able to accept that answer?
God of the impossible, thank you for listening to the cries of our hearts. Thanks for listening, caring ad working in our lives. Amen.
Kathleen S Evenhouse 