My family recently had some pretty devastating news handed to us. The details are unimportant, but suffice it to say that it caught everyone unaware, as news like this often does. It sent my mind to the worst possible outcome, again, as news like this often does. My thoughts did a bit of a tailspin, which landed me in my bed late one night, lying next to my husband, grabbing Kleenex after Kleenex as despair and panic slowly wound their icy tendrils down and around my thoughts. I couldn’t find my way out of the literal and metaphorical darkness, and in my panic I cried out to God, “Help me find my way out of this.” The despair ballooned, and it felt like part of my brain detached itself, grabbed a Bible, and searched for a word of encouragement.
I closed my eyes. Searching for a path forward, I let everything I knew about the old stories wrap themselves around my mind. I let the years of sitting in these books, these verses, silence the panic. I let the echoes of Christ that we find on every page speak for themselves. What was true, even in the midst of this all-consuming panic? What was true, even if the worst possible outcome came to fruition? Genesis, Exodus, Psalms, Malachi, John, Romans, Revelation … They all sang the same song, the chorus whispering into the dark. The people of God don’t need a little assistance rescuing themselves. They need all-out rescuing. Full stop. And that rescuing has always, without fail, been irrevocably and unequivocally found at the cross. I let this song that I knew so well crawl into my panic, into my fear. And with my next unsteady breath, I found a better plea: “Rescue me.”
No self-help. No prayers for strength, guidance, or courage to calm my own mind. I stopped trying to fight the storm and let myself sink, knowing with full certainty that the undercurrent of Christ would catch me.
In the darkness still, with my eyes closed and my heart open, I found myself standing in a valley of bones next to the prophet Ezekiel. I stood there, shin deep in death, a death so complete that the bones were dry, free from all signs of life. What a weird, and upon first glance, unhelpful story to find myself in, especially considering my despair was directly connected to what at the time felt like a potential death sentence. Then God springs into action: muscles regrew, bone came together with bone. Life was rebuilt with nothing more than a word. And in the next word, breath. Life from death. Everything from nothing. The comfort from this was inescapable, and it didn’t come from the power of Ezekiel’s word, but from the powerlessness of the bones. My mind reset the story, leaving me alone in the valley once more, surrounded by the bones who were waiting for that call. I let myself sink down, resting between them, laying amidst them. I let myself be comforted by the fact that there is only one person that can call life from death, and blessedly, that isn’t me.
It was there, wrapping myself around the very idea of death that had sent me into a tailspin, that I found comfort and peace. Regardless of whether death was the outcome of this devastating news, the Son of Man is coming. He will wade into death and speak a word that will draw us from our tombs, regardless of how or when we enter them. Death, though devastating, does not have the final word.
This wasn’t a prophecy. It wasn’t a vision. It was simply the word of God, “living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing the division of soul and spirit, of joints and marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart” (Heb 4:12). It was the promise of the Spirit being active in my life, in our lives, through the text that God has spoken to us throughout the ages. It was God speaking the same words that he has spoken to his people since the beginning of time.
My life, and especially this particularly stressful and life-altering event, did not change with this revelation. My family was not presented with a miracle of restored health. Perhaps that may have been what we all reflexively hope for when we fall on our knees in the shadow of the cross. What I found, however, was a peace beyond the physical restoration of a failing body. It’s a peace that is untouchable in the storm of life, a peace that exists in the quiet space that the cross holds for us. It is the certainty of not a physical restoration, but a spiritual restoration. What God offers at the cross, an offer that is proclaimed in every verse of the Bible, is eternal salvation that can only come from the broken body of Christ. The brokenness of our lives and our bodies hold nothing to the crucified promise of the cross. It breaks into our pain and breathes calm into the chaos.
It is at the foot of the cross where we find rest, and stillness, and peace. It is there where we find respite from despair and a buoy for our joy. It is there, in each and every story that has been carved on our hearts, that we hear the song of the savior: “I am here. I will rescue you. The love I have for you has no limits. Be still. Rest. I am coming.”