When their song was over, the audience burst into thunderous applause. The darkness gave us all a unique and amazing appreciation for the extraordinary talent God had given these blind musicians. But what really turned up the wattage on the praise that night was the fact that these artists played through the dark.
The same is true when we live for God. Sure, our lives resound with praise when He lights our path and we follow Him. After all, a disciple should follow his master. But when there’s no light for your path and you follow Him through dark times, the volume and the intensity of praise to God goes up many more decibels.
An unknown psalmist named Ethan the Ezrahite, in a time of apparent national darkness, wrote these words: “Blessed are those who have learned to acclaim you, who walk in the light of your presence, O LORD … for you are their glory and strength.”5
In other words, when there is no light by which to read the music, those who know their God by heart play on.
And the music changes the darkness itself, creating within it a habitation of praise.
Answer No. 3: I can go on … because Jesus is my consolation.
I was feeling pretty down last Sunday afternoon because I’d had to stay in bed and missed church. Pain does that to me every once in awhile, but this time, it made me feel low. Very low.
I was lying on my side with my laptop next to me. Knowing that I could control my computer with voice commands, I opened my Bible software program to look up a few Scriptures.
Up came one of those pop-up pages—a reading from one of Charles Spurgeon’s devotionals. I usually click those devotions closed and move on to my Bible study. But this one was on the consoling work of the Holy Spirit. In need of encouragement as I was, I sensed the Spirit whispering, Go ahead, read about Me! So that’s what I did … and I’m so happy I made that choice. It was all about the work of God’s Spirit, described as only Spurgeon can.
He said, “Jesus cheers us.”
Those three little words caught my eye. He cheers us not by His physical presence, but through the Holy Spirit. Yes, the Spirit’s role is to convict and convince us of sin, to illuminate and instruct our hearts. But His main work is to make glad our tired hearts, to uplift and confirm the weak, to encourage and raise up the downcast, and to comfort us. And He does this all through Christ.
Yes, the Holy Spirit consoles, but Jesus is the consolation. The Holy Spirit may act as a physician, but Christ is the medicine. The Spirit heals, but He does so by applying the balm of Gilead: the Lord Jesus. One might be the Comforter, but the other is true comfort. The Spirit focuses not on His own things, but the things of Christ. Spurgeon reminded me that with such rich provision, why should I be sad or despondent? The Holy Spirit is graciously engaged to be my Comforter. He comes alongside me to show me Christ as I might not see Him when times are happy or when life’s smooth and easy.
And surely the Holy Spirit takes His sacred trust seriously. It’s the Spirit’s greatest joy and pleasure—it’s His specific command—to honor Christ by helping you and me. Would the Holy Spirit neglect or ignore the Father’s command to encourage us? I don’t think so! It’s the Spirit’s task to strengthen you, and He’s one who would never neglect His loving office. He lives within your heart to make your heart sturdy and glad, and to remind you of sure and certain promises.
And the beautiful promises that made my heart strong on that Sunday afternoon was Isaiah 61, where it is said of Jesus, “He has come to bind up the wounds of the brokenhearted and to comfort all who mourn … to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.”6
By the time the afternoon drifted into the evening, I was, well, a different person. I was still in pain and still in bed, but I was at peace.
The question with which I’ve entitled this chapter, “How can I go on like this?” falls directly into the Holy Spirit’s mission in your life, and He takes it very seriously. He’s already on the job. He’s engaged. And if you listen, He will speak the comforting words of Jesus into the deep places of your soul.
Answer No. 4: I can go on … because right now counts forever.
I remember when this thought hit me with the greatest force. It was years ago when Ken and I made one of our last visits to my mother, when she still lived on the farm in Maryland. I remember being almost shocked by her appearance. At eighty-seven, she seemed to me but a shadow—a frail, thin shadow—of the strong, athletic woman I remember growing up. I had known she was losing ground, both physically and mentally, but on that trip it hit me with a finality that really took me aback.
She was nervous in our family gatherings and couldn’t remember the words of well-loved songs and favorite hymns. I remember watching her trying to talk to my aunt, and when she couldn’t find the words, she seemed so bewildered, almost lost.
She is now on the other side with Jesus and my dad, enjoying the wonder of a new, forever-young body and praising God with effortless, endless expressions of joy. But during those days in Maryland on that last visit, her frailty hit me broadside with the awesome fact of my own mortality. I looked at her and it was like the thought had dawned on me for the first time: That’s where I’m heading … where we’re all heading.
That sobering thought alone was enough to remind me of the stakes involved in life. To be confronted with suffering, whether observing it in another or struggling against it with your own aches and pains … to be confronted with affliction is a reminder that something immense and cosmic is at stake: a heaven to be reached, a hell to be avoided, and a life on earth to be lived seriously and circumspectly.
Our souls are the battleground on which massive spiritual battles are right now—right this minute—being waged. And the stakes are enormous. Beyond our conception.
Here on earth, we’re being observed by both the sons and daughters of God (who need an example of how to face suffering) and by those who have not yet bowed their knee to the Lordship of Jesus (who need to see how believers respond to the multifaceted circumstances of life). And beyond these earthly eyes, there are other eyes in the spirit realm—both angelic and demonic—who observe and take note whether or not we trust our God in the crucible of trials and affliction. (Remember Job?) And those who have gone on before us—are they watching too? Some interpret Hebrews 12:1 to mean that there literally are saints seated in heavenly grandstands, observing our battles and cheering us on to triumphs of faith.
There is yet another reason why right now counts for eternity.
The New Testament brims over with the promise of everlasting rewards for those who remain faithful to their calling, even in the face of great suffering. To the suffering believers in Smyrna, Jesus said: “Do not be afraid of what you are about to suffer.… Be faithful, even to the point of death, and I will give you the crown of life” (Rev. 2:10).
Every day of our short lives—even every hour—has eternal consequences for good or ill. Eternity—and the way we’ll live in it—is somehow being shaped by our moment-by-moment responses to the life we have before us to live right now.
And so it is only fitting that God should give us some sense of the stakes involved. I’m so grateful that life for us is not an easy road. If it were, if the Lord did not occasionally give us a taste of hell’s splashover, you and I would soon forget that this world is not our home. I’m also grateful that He opens our eyes from time to time to the magnitude of this spiritual war we are in. He does this by giving us wonderful foretastes of glory divine in the joys we experience, and He does it by allowing us foretastes of hell in our suffering.
Whatever we are experiencing today, we can be reminded of the eternal stakes involved.
That, too, keeps me going.
It’s not easy “going on” right now in my life—but I must go on and I will go on, until He calls me home. And for however many more days He gives me to live for Him on th
is side of heaven, every one of them counts forever.
Three Turns of the Ramp
Five different friends, on five different mornings, drive me from home to work. It means four stoplights, a sharp turn onto the 101, exit, then another three lights, and a right-hand turn onto Agoura Road. There’s one more light before you turn onto Ladyface Court, which winds up the hill to the International Disability Center—but I don’t count that one, because there’s enough room to brake long and slow up to the light.
I know every bend, every intersection of the route. I know it because each stop and turn causes a sharp jag in my back. It’s why on the freeway I always ask the girls, “Could we please get out of the slow lane? The trucks have sure made it bumpy.”
I may not love the drive to work, but I do love arriving.
Our receptionist recently called it “a little bit of heaven.” And so it is. The center stands tall and large, reminding me of the vision that brings me here every day: to communicate the gospel and to equip Christ-honoring churches worldwide to evangelize and disciple people affected by disability.
Just this morning as Sandy was driving me up Ladyface, I said with a sigh and a smile, “How many people get to do something each day that literally changes lives for eternity?!”
“We do,” she said with a smile into the rearview mirror.
I hit the handicap access plate by the center’s front doors, which slowly swing open, and in I wheel—heading not for the elevator, but the ramp.
I always take the ramp.
Centered in the middle of the lobby, it’s a slow, winding climb around the chapel to my second-floor office. And the chapel is, of course, the first place I want to visit. Yes, my secretary’s waiting. Yes, there are piles on my desk demanding attention. Yes, I have an interview at 10:30 a.m. But I can’t clear my head of those jags in my back until I spend a moment with God. It’s a moment that always includes a word of thanks that I’m here … and a prayer for healing from the pain.
I proceed to the second floor, where on each of the three landings, a Bible verse has been inscribed in large flowing script on walls of soft lavender.
Three turns in the ramp. Three landings. Three verses.
The first one reminds me of my purpose—why I get out of bed, go through an elaborate morning routine to get ready for the day, and endure fresh visitations of pain on my commute to the center. It’s why we’re all here at Joni and Friends—to go out, find the disabled, and bring them in.
But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed. (Luke 14:13–14)
Around the next turn in the ramp, at the second landing, the second wall speaks to me of God’s provision for the task He has placed before me—and reminds me that His special favor rests on those who are weak.
“My gracious favor is all you need. My power works best in your weakness!” So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may work through me. (2 Cor. 12:9 NLT)
And the last verse at the last turn assures me that my Lord will soon come again, gathering His scattered family and mending what has been long broken.
And when He comes, He will open the eyes of the blind and unstop the ears of the deaf. The lame will leap like a deer, and those who cannot speak will shout and sing! (Isa. 35:5–6 NLT)
That’s the verse, right there on the third landing, that always brings tears. Because my time in the chapel didn’t dissipate the spear thrusts in my hip and lower back. It’s still there as I write these words—and yes, it’s getting worse. Today may be yet another day when I work from the little bed in my office rather than from my wheelchair.
Did God hear my cry for help and healing in the chapel today? I’m sure He did. But for reasons He knows best, the throbbing persists.
How long will this pattern continue? How many more days of pain piercing me at every stoplight on my commute, following me around three slow turns up the ramp to my office? Of course I can’t know that. But those verses on three successive walls, at three successive landings, painted there long before this current season of elevated physical stress, continue to speak to me, continue to illuminate the path ahead, and continue to help me keep on keeping on, for yet one more day.
First landing: “Give a banquet … invite the poor … you will be blessed.”
In other words, My daughter, keep on going in My name to the broken, discouraged, and despairing. Keep on being My hands and feet and eyes and ears for those who are without. Do this as long as you are able.
Second turn: “My gracious favor is all you need. My power works best in your weakness!”
My daughter, I have not forgotten your need. I have not overlooked your hurt, disregarded your pain, closed My ears to your cry for help, or in any way withheld My favor from you. I will provide for you, and I will continue to show My might through your weakest moments, honoring your faintest attempts to honor and serve Me.
And the final turn: “And when He comes … the lame will leap like a deer!”
I come. Watch for Me! The help for which you pray—more help than you can conceive—is just around the corner. Just over the horizon. Can you see? The clouds are already beginning to part. I am coming with gifts of health and strength and joy and life like an artesian fountain. I am making all things new.
Three turns in the ramp, three landings, three reminders from the Word that is forever fresh and new. What’s life all about for me in these days of sometimes blinding pain?
Mission, provision, and hope. A task that still needs doing, a promise that still holds true, and a hope that keeps me glancing toward the horizon.
For now, for today, it is enough.
Six
How Can I Bring Him Glory?
Love means doing all we can, at whatever cost to ourselves, to help people be enthralled with the glory of God. When they are, they are satisfied and God is glorified. Therefore loving people and glorifying God are one.
—John Piper
If God chooses to heal me of this two-year wrestling match with continual pain, I will give Him great glory. (Oh boy, you just watch!)
But if for His own good, unfathomable reasons, He chooses to allow the anguish—this sharp, deep, thorn in my flesh—to remain in some form until He finally issues my boarding pass for heaven (I want a window seat), then I will also pour my life into bringing glory to His most precious, saving, healing, holy name.
I will!
But how do I do that? How do any of us do that when we find ourselves in prolonged, unwelcome seasons of sorrow, stress, illness, financial loss, relational grief—or any of life’s sundry valleys and heartaches?
And what does it even mean to “give God glory,” anyway?
In the Old Testament the principle word for glory seems to indicate “weight” or “heaviness.” Its primary uses convey the idea of some external, physical manifestation of dignity, preeminence, or majesty. The principle New Testament word makes reference to “brightness, brilliance, and splendor.”1 There are plenty of textbook definitions out there, and I could give you one of those, but you could look it up just as easily yourself.
Just for a moment, allow me to combine the Old and New Testament concepts of glory to make a simple observation. When we glorify the name of our God, He gives us the opportunity of adding weight or significance—including adulation, respect, and honor—to His reputation. He allows us the unspeakable privilege of showcasing the brightness and splendor of His great name in our dark world.
Oh, so much more could be said about that of course—thousands of volumes with eye-straining print wouldn’t do the subject justice. But just for now, let’s allow my simple definition to suffice.
I believe that my ministries over the past forty years—through writing, speaking, painting, singing, counseling, and being an advocate for disab
led people—have brought weight to the mighty name of Jesus. And I am so very glad for that.
But let’s play a little “what if” game here. What if … because of encroaching pain or even more profound disability, I became hindered from doing any or all of those well-loved activities. What then? Could I still bring Him glory? Could I still somehow, in some way, add weight to His most worthy name? Could I still prompt my Savior and friend to smile and nod with recognition over something I might try for His sake and for the love of Him?
Yes, I firmly believe that to be so.
And since I believe there is really nothing more important in all of our lives that we could do, let me suggest just a few ideas on the subject as we move past the midpoint of this book.
How Do We Bring Christ Glory in a Time of Trial or Limitation?
1. Breathe in His presence.
A few years ago I struggled through a long bout against double pneumonia. It would have been a difficult time for anyone, but for someone with quadriplegia…. Well, it was nothing short of a nightmare.
I was hospitalized for nine days, and frankly, there were times when I wondered if this might be the time God would take me home. Try to imagine lying flat and not being able to raise your head and cough when you feel that tightness and gurgling in your bronchioles. Imagine not being able to sit up in bed or at least rise up on your elbows. Sometimes it felt as if there was an invisible hand pressing an invisible pillow over my face.
On some of the worse nights, my wonderful husband put two chairs together in my hospital room and slept by my bed so I could at least quiet my heart knowing someone was there to help sit me up every time I needed to expel phlegm.
One day during my hospital stay my doctor did a very helpful thing. He set up an oxygen tank by my bed so I could breathe a little easier in those moments when I felt like I was being asphyxiated. Never did I appreciate oxygen so much! On nights when I could hardly get a breath, they slipped that oxygen mask over my face and … what relief!
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