3/22/20 I wrote this when my best friend was diagnosed with an aggressive, relentless type of cancer two years ago. In those moments, it was difficult to even breathe. Two years later, she is still fighting the unseen cancer enemy. It only seemed fitting that I share the depths of what my soul felt back then and still now. Maybe the fear I had when I wrote this can bring about comfort to the many who fear the unknown coronavirus now.
Silence. That word brings so many things to mind. So many memories. So many fears. So many times when all I can do is sit in the deafening silence and wonder…are you there, God? If I listen loud enough, can I hear your still, small voice…your whisper? Are you working even when I can’t see the evidence?
You tell us not to lose heart. That even though this outward body is wasting away, you are renewing our inner person day by day. That this present trouble, this light, momentary affliction is preparing for us and producing in us an eternal glory that outweighs any affliction we will endure. You tell us not to look at the things that are before us, the things that are seen, but to the unseen, the silence in the midst of the chaos. For these are the things that will not perish. These are the things that will stand forever. These things are eternal.
You tell us that since we have been made sons and daughters, you have placed your peace deep within our soul. In the quiet recesses of our heart. In the silence that we can hardly bear. Because of what you’ve done, we can rejoice in the hope and freedom you’ve given. We can stand, confidently and joyfully, and look forward to sharing in your glory.
You tell us that we can rejoice in these momentary afflictions, these present troubles. That these trials, these sufferings, are producing an endurance that can only birth character: who you are shaping us to be. Which ultimately strengthens our hope, the hope of our salvation. And that hope does NOT disappoint. It does not disappoint because you have poured your love in our hearts through your Spirit. That unending, ever-flowing love.
So in this moment, this silence, I take joy in the momentary affliction, the hardship, the calamity of it all. For when I am weak, then I am strong. And not a strength of my own accord because my own strength does not exist. On my own, I am but a shell of a body. But a godly, supernatural strength allows me to cling to the answers unknown. To the future that only you know. To your still, small voice. Your whisper. Your silence.
(Based on 2 Corinthians 4, Romans 5, and 2 Corinthians 12).