Chaos wrapped its stubborn tendrils around my ankles and brought me stumbling to my knees last week.
My mother, vibrant and energetic at 83, crashed to the floor with a stroke and now we wait. We sit beside her hospital bed, counting her breaths, charting every twitch of her toes.
Hopeful. Fearful. Will she survive this attack on her brain and her body? How well can her body heal?
And what have we lost?
Chaos swirls like a dripping fog, drenching us with plans draining away.
But I haven’t asked why. Once I would have shook my fist at heaven demanding to know how this unfairness could descend onto my family.
But no more. The old urge to control my world, to conform all plans to mine, is gone. I am no god. I’m weak. I’d be fickle with fairness, my vision limited by selfishness and ignorance.
So we walk not by my willpower but by faith, knowing that there is One who is not selfish or ignorant. He knows what I cannot discern and he lifts my yoke with his strength.
We walk step by step doing the next thing although we’d love to know where the end of the journey lies and when the path twists.
The tragedy cannot penetrate our hearts or steal our peace because we do not walk alone. There’s the meaning in this cold chaos.