House on the Rock

As those September days drug on, we began to see signs of hope. During a neurological evaluation of her brain activity, a doctor asked mom her name. After several seconds of silence, she peeled back her lips and gently murmured, “Carrie Saunders.” We weren’t in the room to witness this, but the optimistic report brought great joy. We surrounded her bedside, friends pouring in from all parts of the state, praying and weeping by her bedside. 

Cam held her hand as we prayed. “Keep fighting, Mom, keep fighting,” he willed. In the quiet, amidst the hum of IV pumps and constant sniffles, she whispered, “I’m a fighter, buddy.”

The room erupted in joyful sobs. What a merciful gift from our God! Perhaps we would get a chance to talk to our mom again after all. 

She was transported that night to Franciscan Indianapolis, the same hospital where she was rushed on August 8 when they first found fluid around her lungs. While we weren’t ready to be back there, we knew the care was amazing. We knew God was everywhere we were. Despite being in Lafayette, Crawfordsville Fire Department (where my sister works) insisted on coming to complete the transport — praise the Lord for a department that looks out for their family! 

The days that followed were a blur. We all went back to school and work, trying to pretend like we cared even the tiniest bit about teaching grammar or filling out financial reports. But every day, as soon as that 3:50 bell rang, I was out of there — on the road to the south side to be next to my mama. 

The Scripture that sustained us through those days was Psalm 121. Every single stanza of that chapter was a balm to our weary souls:

“I lift my eyes to the mountains. Where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the maker of Heaven and earth” (vs. 1-2).

There were moments when, although I wanted to be so close to my mom, I couldn’t look at her. The grief was too consuming. The shots they were giving her made me dizzy to even look at. The tremors of her hands broke my heart. 

So instead, I’d go to the window. I wasn’t looking at mountains — Indianapolis is not known for its alps. But I’d stare up at the sky, lifting my eyes to the bigness of our God. It was a coping mechanism my pastor had taught me in college when I was pummeled by anxiety over a grueling job search. “Look up,” he encouraged. “See how grand our God is and remember He cares for you.”

I’d stare at the sky and cry out to our big God. “My help comes from you. My help comes from you.” It would reorient my perspective, my view of Him. Then, I could turn around and have peace as I sat by my mother’s side.

The second section of the Psalm comes with a beautiful promise —

“He will not allow your foot to slip; your Protector will not slumber.
Indeed, the Protector of Israel does not slumber or sleep” (vs. 3-4).

We were able to sleep because we knew our God was not sleeping. He was our protector and our mom’s protector. He was not going to allow us to sink in this storm. I look back and remember sleeping soundly despite the raging sea before us. I remember learning to cling to His presence with every breath, but knowing His presence would not vanish in the night. I could close my eyes with the confidence that God was watching over my mom, and He loved her even more than we did. 

The next stanza is every bit as comforting.

“The Lord protects you; the Lord is a shelter right by your side. The sun will not strike you by day or the moon by night”  (vs. 5-6).

A few things are notable here — first, that it is the LORD that protects us. Not a doctor. Not my dad or my pastor or even my husband. The LORD. God. The one who breathes galaxies. What a sweet and beautiful gift — the Lord over the whole universe is a shelter right by my side. Protecting my mom. Protecting our hearts. Protecting the doctors, our travels, us. 

Other translations of this passage read, “The Lord is a shelter at your right hand.” I love this, because my mom’s entire left side was paralyzed. She could hardly look to her left, let alone move that side of her body. This meant, that in order to maximize our interactions with her, we would sit at her right side. It’s beautiful to think of the Lord on her right side too, right there, where we were. Next to us. Sheltering us. Sheltering her — almost as if she was looking to the right to be looking toward Him.

And finally, the last stanza drives home all we had been clinging to: 

“The Lord will protect you from all harm;
he will protect your life.
The Lord will protect your coming and going
both now and forever” (vs. 7-8).

Merisms on merisms, baby! Biblical authors often used these contrasting words (think life and death, Heaven and Earth) to express totality or completeness. Can you think of anything more all-encompassing than coming and going both now and forever? I love this promise sealed at the end — a sort of exclamation mark to all the statements before. Almost as if God is saying “I’ll help you. I’ll help you at night. I’ll help you right by your side. I’ll help you forever and ever in every moment…forever.” What a crescendo of comfort!

These four stanzas sort of became like a four-part checklist I would will myself to remember. Every morning, with every blow of bad news, I had to walk myself through the following — 

• Step 1: Lift your eyes. 
• Step 2: Know that our God doesn’t sleep, so we can!
• Step 3: Remember He is right by our sides (or by our right sides).
• Step 4: Trust that this help covers everything forever. 

And step by step, with God’s help, we would begin to make it through the valley.