For the benefit of those of you who are enduring that withering attack on your faith, I want to share some similar experiences in the lives of other Christians. As indicated, it is important to recognize that you are not alone. Your pain and discouragement, which might lead you to ask "Why me?" are not unique. You have not been singled out for sorrow. Most of us are destined, it seems, to bump our heads on the same ol' rock. From ancient times, men and women have grieved over stressful circumstances that did not fit any pattern of logic or symmetry. It happens to us all sooner or later. Millions have been there. And despite what some Christians will tell you, being a follower of Jesus Christ is no foolproof insurance policy against these storms of life.
Consider, for example, the life and death of Dr. Paul Carlson. In 1961, he had joined a relief agency to serve as a medical missionary in the Belgian Congo. It was only a six-month commitment, but what he saw there changed his life. He could not forget the hopeless people when he returned to his thriving medical practice in Redondo Beach, California. He told a colleague, "If you could only see (the need), you wouldn't be able to swallow your sandwich." Soon, Dr. Carlson moved his family to Africa and set up a makeshift clinic, operating at times by flashlight and making house calls on his motorbike. His salary dropped to $3,230 per year, but money didn't matter. He was marching to a different drummer.
Two years later, however, Dr. Carlson became a pawn in a bloody confrontation between rival revolutionary factions in the Belgian Congo. He was among a small band of Americans who were held captive near the battle zone. They had one fleeting opportunity to escape by scaling a wall and dropping to safety on the other side. Dr. Carlson reached the top of the barrier and was a split second from freedom when a burst of bullets tore through his body. He fell back into thecourtyard and died. It was a senseless killing by rebels who had nothing to gain by his murder.
"Time" magazine, in its report of the killing, said this about the physician:
Dr. Carlson's murder, along with the massacre of perhaps another hundred whites and thousands of blacks, had a special, tragic meaning. [He] symbolized all the white men--and there are many--who want nothing from Africa but a chance to help. He was no saint and no deliberate martyr. He was a highly skilled physician who, out of a strong Christian faith and a sense of common humanity, had gone to the Congo to treat the sick.(1)
That humanitarian commitment cost Dr. Paul Earle Carlson his life.
And we are left to ask, "Why, Lord? Why couldn't You have distracted the gunner for another instant?" Even a butterfly in front of his nose or some sweat in his eyes could have changed the tragic outcome. No such distraction occurred. And so ended the earthly days of a good man who left a loving wife and two children behind.
How about the experience of my friends Daryl and Clarita Gustafson? They were infertile for many years, despite exhaustive medical tests and procedures. They prayed consistently for God to grant them the privilege
1 "The World, Africa, The Congo Massacre," "Time" (December 4, 1964).
of bringing a child into the world, but the heavens were silent and the womb remained barren. The ticking of Clarita's biological clock was deafening as the months slid into history. Then one day it happened. Clarita discovered that she was gloriously pregnant. God had spoken at last. A healthy baby boy was born seven months later, and he was named Aaron, after Moses' brother. This child was their pride and joy.
When Aaron was three years old, however, he was diagnosed as having a very virulent form of cancer. What followed were 10 months of painful chemotherapy and radiation treatment. Despite all efforts to arrest the disease, Aaron's little body continued to deteriorate. His mother and father vacillated between hope and despair, as only the parents of dying children can fully comprehend. Despite many prayers and countless tears, Aaron went to be with the Lord in 1992, at four years of age. Thus, the miracle child, whom Daryl and Clarita called "God's little angel and our little pumpkin," was taken from them. The faith of this remarkable family has remained strong, although their questions still have not been answered.
My heart aches for these and all the other mothers and fathers who have lost a precious child. Indeed, I hear regularly from parents who have experienced a similar tragedy. One family, in particular, stands out in my mind. I learned of their sorrow from the father who sent me a tribute to the memory of his little girl, Bristol. This is what he wrote:
My Dear Bristol,
Before you were born I prayed for you. In my heart I knew that you would be a little angel. And so you were.
When you were born on my birthday, April 7, it was evident that you were a special gift from the Lord. But how profound a gift you turned out to be! More than the beautiful bundle of gurgles and rosy cheeks--more than the first-born of my flesh, a joy unspeakable--you showed me God's love more than anything else in all creation. Bristol, you taught me how to love.
I certainly loved you when you were cuddly and cute, when you rolled over and sat up and jabbered your first words. I loved you when the searing pain of realization took hold that something was wrong--that maybe you were not developing as quickly as your peers, and then when we understood it was more serious than that. I loved you when we went from hospital to clinic to doctor looking for a medical diagnosis that would bring some hope.
And, of course, we always prayed for you--and prayed--and prayed. I loved you when one of the tests resulted in too much spinal fluid being drawn from your body and you screamed. I loved you when you moaned and cried, when your mom and I and your sisters would drive for hours late at night to help you fall asleep. I loved you with tears in my eyes when, confused, you would bite your fingers or your lip by accident, and when your eyes crossed and then went blind.
I most certainly loved you when you could no longer speak, but how profoundly I missed your voice! I loved you when your scoliosis started wrenching your body like a pretzel, when we put a tube in your stomach so you could eat because you were choking on your food, which we fed you one spoonful at a time for up to two hours per meal. I managed to love you when your contorted limbs would not allow ease of changing your messy diapers--so many diapers--ten years of diapers. Bristol, I even loved you when you could not say the one thing in life that I longed to hear back--"Daddy, I love you." Bristol, I loved you when I was close to God and when He seemed far away, when I was full of faith and also when I was angry at Him.
And the reason I loved you, my Bristol, in spite of these difficulties, is that God put this love in my heart. This is the wondrous nature of God's love, that he loves us even when we are blind, deaf, or twisted--in body or in spirit. God loves us even when we can't tell Him that we love Him back.
My dear Bristol, now you are free! I look forward to that day, according to God's promises, when we will be joined together with you with the Lord, completely whole and full of joy. I'm so happy that you have your crown first. We will follow you someday--in His time.
Before you were born I prayed for you. In my heart I knew that you would be a little angel. And so you were!
Love, Daddy
Though I have never met this loving father, I personally identify with the passion of his heart. What an understatement! I can still hardly read his words without fighting back tears. I've had the same tenderness toward my son and daughter since the day they were born. Even with this empathy, I can only begin to imagine the agony wrought by the 10-year ordeal described in this dad's letter. Not only is this kind of tragedy an emotional nightmare, but it can become the spiritual mine field I have described.
Again, these examples of heartache illustrate the fact that godly people--praying people--sometimes face the same hardships that nonbelievers experience. If we deny that fact, we create even greater pain and disillusionment for those who are unprepared to handle it. That is why we must overcome our reluctance to admit these unpleasant realities. We must brace our brothers and sisters against the betrayal barrier. We must teach them not to depend too heavily on their own ability to comprehend the inexplicable circumstances in our lives.
Remember that the Scripture warns us to "lean not on your own understanding" (Proverbs 3:5). Note that we are not prohibited from trying to understand. I've spent a lifetime attempting to get a handle on some of the imponderables of life, which has led to the writing of this book. But we are specifically told not to lean on our ability to make the pieces fit. "Leaning" refers to the panicky demand for answers--throwing faith to the wind if a satisfactory response cannot be produced. It is pressing God to explain Himself--or else! That is where everything starts to unravel.
Admittedly, I do not have tidy answers that will satisfy Aaron's parents, or Mrs. Carlson, or Dr. Karen Frye. I have no airtight explanations for Bristol's aching father or the parents of Steve White.
In fact, I find it irritating when amateur theologians throw around simplistic platitudes, such as "God must have wanted the little flower named Bristol for His heavenly garden." Nonsense! A loving Father does not tear the heart out of a family for selfish purposes! No, it is better to acknowledge that we have been given too few facts to explain all the heartache in an imperfect, fallen world. That understanding will have to await the coming of the sovereign Lord who promises to set straight all accounts and end all injustice
Book: When God Doesn't Make Sense
By Dr. James Dobson