Place for Weakness : Preparing Yourself for Suffering

by Michael S. Horton

• ISBN13: 9780310327400
• ISBN10: 0310327407
• Edition: Reprint
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2010-08-06
• Publisher: Zondervan

Summary

In a world of hype, we may buy into the idea that, through Jesus, weÆll be healthier and wealthier as well as wiser. So what happens when we become ill, or depressed, or bankrupt? Did we do something wrong? Has God abandoned us? As a child, Michael Horton would run up the down escalator, trying to beat it to the top. As Christians, he notes, we sometimes seek God the same way, believing we can climb to him under our own steam. We canÆt, which is why we are blessed that Jesus descends to us, especially during times of trial. In A Place for Weakness, formerly titled Too Good to Be True, Horton exposes the pop culture that sells Jesus like a product for health and happiness and reminds us that our lives often lead us on difficult routes we must follow by faith. This book offers a series of powerful readings that demonstrate how, through every type of earthly difficulty, our Father keeps his promises from Scripture and works all things together for our good.

Excerpts

I felt as if I were a willful teenager again, with my father shakingme by the shoulders to bring me to my senses. Only now,he could not grab me. He could not even speak to me, althoughhe desperately mumbled strange sounds. All that was left of theman were his eyes, pounding against my heart with their steelygray intensity.As everyone who knew him even casually could attest, myfather had eyes that laughed before the rest of his face couldcatch up. Some of us, especially his children, knew that, onthose rare occasions when his temper flared, it happened firstin his eyes. With a mere glance, he could nip horseplay in thebud at the dinner table. Now those eyes were almost alwaysreporting an emotion we had never seen in our dad. The onefor whom the glass was always half full, who always landed onhis feet in every circumstance, was more terrified of wakingthan of dying.Have you ever seen someone wail without actually beingable to articulate a cry, his heaving chest and terrified visagegiving the secret away? Larger than life since my childhood,this great man was now as helpless as an infant and more pitifulthan any life I had ever known, his gaunt flesh wasting andyellowing with every passing week.At the age of seventy-eight, James Horton had been diagnosedwith a benign brain tumor that required immediatesurgery. At first, a shunt released some of the fluid on his brain,but a further surgery was necessary to excise the rapidly growinglump before it interrupted vital brain functions. This surgeryfailed, and before long we realized that my father wouldnot recover.He lived for nearly a year, however, almost paralyzed fromhead to toe. Since even his face had lost muscular control, hiseyelids drooped, exposing their red interior. It was as if hiswhole face had melted like wax, and we could hardly recognizehim --- except for the eyes, which were always filled with emotion,usually unspeakable pain. But occasionally, and more frequentlytoward the end, they evidenced hope and a confidencethat came from another place.We prayed for weeks that the Lord would take him home.We would place our son, just a few months old, in his namesake'slistless arms and watch my dad's heaving chest signal hisdelight. Even then, it was always a bittersweet visit for my father,and for us.The Gibraltar of the family, my mother, fussed over hisbedside, nervously fluffing his pillows at fifteen-minute intervals,ensuring that the intravenous fluids were properly calculated,and organizing edifying visits from friends and childrenfrom church. In between, she read quietly in her chair whileholding Dad's hand. For years, I had witnessed the remarkablecare that these two peopleprovided in our home, first to theirown parents and then to fifteen elderly folks in our residentialcare home as I was growing up. But now she was caringfor her best friend, and there was almost nothing she could dofor him but fluff his pillows --- and try to hide her own dailygrief. Although my mom always looked ten years younger thanher actual age, these months acted like time-lapse photography,working my father's pain into her own face and wearing herbody down.A Second BlowThen, just two months before my father's death, Mom suffereda massive stroke while I was driving her from her sister'sfuneral, where she had delivered a moving eulogy. This strongand compassionate woman who had given her life to disadvantagedcity kids and abandoned seniors was now herself dependenton others.I recalled a coupleof times in the past when my parentshad mentioned their worst fears about old age. For my dad, adebilitating disease would be the most horrible way of death,he said; for my mom, it was being a burden --- and from theircaregiving experience they knew both well. In my darker moments,I wondered why God would allow them to experiencetheir worst scenarios in the last act of their play, especially whenthey had done so much for so many others. They had movedclose to Lisa and me in our first year of marriage to be of helpwhen they learned of our first pregnancy. Always running tothe side of those who needed a strong arm, my mom was nowpartially paralyzed and disabled, while my dad was succumbingto an agonizing death.I told God that it all seemed too calculated, that he seemedall too real, too involved, too present in our lives, especially myparents', as if he had cruelly dished out the very end that eachmost feared. Shouldn't peoplewhose lives were all about givingto others, especially to the elderly, have a break when itcomes to how they leave this life? It seemed to challenge thewhole 'reap what you sow' principle: does this apply only whenpeopledeserve bad and not when they deserve good?My wife, recovering from several especially difficult miscarriages,found that her visits to my dad's bedside only aggravatedher questions about God's goodness. It was strange to see hergo through this. After all, Lisa was a Bible study teacher whodevoured pretty deep theology books. Now it was all being putto the test of real life.I had experienced death up close in our home growingup, not only with my grandparents but also with the adopted'grandparents' in our home for the elderly. Still, Lisa and Iboth struggled with the usual doubts. Peoplesuffer and evendie from natural causes every day, we tried to tell ourselves.Furthermore, old peopleeventually die. We all die. This doesn'tmitigate the tragedy, but its inevitability and universality atleast prepare us for the fact.But why do some peoplesuffer so much in their death?Why is it often so slow and painful? Is death itself not horribleenough that we also have to fear dying --- a wasting and witheringthat threatens our cherished expectations of a good andorderly providence? Just to look at my father over the courseof those ghastly months, those long and torturous weeks, wasto face the most serious, existential, concrete challenges to ourdeeply held Christianconvictions.