Last Sunday night I went to bed with the phrase “Jesus is worthy” in my head; it sort of came out of nowhere. I started reflecting on some of my lowest and toughest points, and I affirmed that yes, in every single one, Jesus was (is) worthy. The next morning I woke up with that phrase as my first thought, and I felt that declaration somewhat ominously since it implies that no matter the cost, no matter the loss, Jesus is worthy of everything we face. Four hours later, my dad’s life was on the line. I knew that if my dad’s life was taken, Jesus was still good. My dad’s life has been spared, and Jesus is not better than He was: He remains infinitely, eternally good.
I kept my Christmas decorations up this year through Epiphany (Jan. 6) and then began to remove them piecemeal, taking my sweet time with the last vestiges of my favorite season. Then January 10th happened, and I paused everything. An unadorned tree took up one-fourth of a room, flanked by heavy bins blocking our living room seating. Lights were up but off, and a boxed holiday village stood awkwardly atop our reserve of paper towels. I half-tripped over everything, ignoring it in an effort to block out all but survival.
I kept my Christmas decorations up this year through Epiphany (Jan. 6) and then began to remove them piecemeal, taking my sweet time with the last vestiges of my This weekend, though, enough stability in my dad’s situation renewed my drive to un-decorate, and once I finished last night, the resultant living space looked inordinately big and bare, as is expected. But it wasn’t as much of a relief as it normally is. I snapped a photo because it looks so much like how I picture the rest of this year: stretching out before me, empty as of yet, filled with the unknown. And that’s unsettling when the first few days were extremely so.
This weekend, though, enough stability in my dad’s situation renewed my drive to un-decorate, and once I finished last night, the resultant living space looked inordinately big and bare, as is expected. But it wasn’t as much of a relief as it normally is. I snapped a photo because it looks so much like how I picture the rest of this year: stretching out before me, empty as of yet, filled with the unknown. And that’s unsettling when the first few days were extremely so.
No one knows what will fill a year. We have hopes and hunches and fears and faith. As for the faith part, I have faith that 2022 holds miracles of healing for my dad. I have faith that my parents will experience significant joy in ministry at their home church. I have faith that Mark and I will carry hope to many more people inside and outside the spinal cord injury community. And I have faith for YOU: that however trying this year may be, however daunting your days look when they stretch out before you, that God who puts all things together, makes all things whole, will put you together, provide you with everything you need to please Him (Hebrews 13:20-21, MSG). I’ve seen it happen every. single. year. Because Jesus is worthy.
Scripture doesn’t simply tell this; it shows this. It doesn’t tell us that when things get hard, we’re just supposed to truck on and remember that Jesus had it even worse. That’s shallow. Instead it shows us that the Father had a plan to crush His Son—and called it a good plan. That He asked for a way out. That others’ sorrow weighed Him down. That people found Him repellent, subversive, and insane, and yet He kept on to ransom people from every tribe and tongue and people and nation. He is worthy of my suffering because He, too, suffered in all the ways, and more intensely so, forever bridging the earthly and divine realms as a result. My own suffering could never do that. It’s not just that He had it worse; of course He did. But He had it different: the destiny of humanity was on the line. Anything I go through either echoes the worth of His actions or tries to deny it, but nothing can change its victory.
Scripture doesn’t simply tell this; it shows this. It doesn’t tell us that when things get hard, we’re just supposed to truck on and remember that Jesus had it even worse. That’s shallow. Instead it shows us that the Father had a plan to crush His Son—and called it a good plan. That He asked for a way out. That others’ sorrow weighed Him down. That people found Him repellent, subversive, and insane, and yet He kept on to ransom people from every tribe and tongue and people and nation. He is worthy of my suffering because He, too, suffered in all the ways, and more intensely so, forever bridging the earthly and divine realms as a result. My own suffering could never do that. It’s not just that He had it worse; of course He did. But He had it different: the destiny of humanity was on the line. Anything I go through either echoes the worth of His actions or tries to deny it, but nothing can change its victory.
However this year will be filled, I can also fill it with the declaration that started out my week: Jesus is worthy.