reaching arms

“He reached down from on high and took hold of me; He drew me out of deep waters.” Psalm 18:16 

bella does this funny little thing when she sleeps. she constantly reaches out with one arm. she is reaching for me. even in deep slumber her hand pats across the bed in tender search for her mama. 

she wants to know i am there.

we've had her in our arms--and, on occasion, sleeping in our bed--for just a few months now. but recently, i realized why she might be doing this. i was thinking back to her little bed in the orphanage. i stood beside it that day we visited last july. the room was set up with 26 or so beds, and every two cribs were attached. she had spent two years sharing a small wall of rails with another child and i am certain bella and her tiny crib mate reached through the bars of their separate beds for one another. 

they reached for warmth. 

they reached for connection.  

they reached for comfort.


i understand that reaching.

last night i went to sleep and felt myself reaching through rails of my own fear. reaching all night long.  reaching for comfort. reaching for warmth. reaching for my Jesus. 

yesterday i was diagnosed with breast cancer. i sat under a clear, blue sky and the front yard tree of my friend's home and i listened to a doctor say, "unfortunately..."  i heard little else after that first word. from that unfortunate moment i have felt myself falling. falling deep and fast and dark. my hands came out quickly to stop myself. i was all arms and limbs flailing. attempting to brace myself for the smack of concrete. trying hard to stop the hurt of this hit. i wanted to catch myself. to clutch up the wind knocked out of my chest. to put it back. to fill it up. to hold it close. 

but i couldn't. no matter how hard i have tried in these past 12 hours of my diagnosis, i know only one thing this morning: my arms are not able. they aren't long enough or strong enough or even soft enough to stop. cradle. catch. hold.

and so i reach.

i will not pretend in this news to be calm or in control.  i will not pretend to embrace this awful. i don't. i can't. right now, i want, instead, to put down my legs and run. run fast away from the news and the decisions and the horror. i want to run from the plan and the next steps and the one-day-at-a-time talk. i want to flee from the telling. the telling of mother, sisters. oh, dear Lord, the heart-wrenching telling of my children. 

i don't want to share this news. i want to fling it down and smash it to smithereens with my smoldering, angry as hell heel. i want to obliterate the screaming word which has seemingly seared itself across the flesh and fabric of my future. i want to run fast and then collapse and curl up in this blanket of breath-snatching fear and close up everything inside.  

but i cannot.

i know this is not an option.

and so i reach.

i reach with arms weak and scared. dangling and shaken. useless arms, except for the reaching. i know what i walk into is beyond me. beyond my strength.  there will be no arm wrestling winner in this contest of cancer.  this morning i have strength enough only for feeble reaching. that is it. that is all. 

i have walked from room to room already before the sun's own waking. i can find no answer in the silence. i have touched things: walls, coffee pot, woolen rough blanket, countertop, a window pane. my searching hands feeling their way and wishing to uncover how this all happened. wanting to scrape off my layers of disbelief. knowing i will find nothing. no sense of peace and no thing secure in any concrete object. no answers.

i can't begin to know why this happened. my fear and disbelief and even my outrage feel blinding. there is no sense. i have five children. they need me. they need their mother well, healthy, whole. 

why Lord? why is this happening?

i feel satan must be dancing wildly at this sad girl's questioning ... her wondering, pleading, crying. his hands clap in great rejoicing at the suffering and doubting which might very well run rampant in my home today and tomorrow and in the weeks ahead. i am sure of it.  

and yet, i reach.

oh Lord, it is the hem of your garment for which my fingers long to feel. The Hem. like the bleeding, trembling, fearful woman in the bible, "when she heard about Jesus, she came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, because she thought, 'if i just touch his clothes, i will be healed'...."then the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came and fell at his feet and, trembling with fear, told him the whole truth.  He said to her, 'daughter, your faith has healed you.  go in peace and be freed from your suffering.'"  (mark 5).  

i don't bleed, but i tremble. oh, how i tremble this april day. and in my great fear, i know i must reach out for His cloak, even now, this first morning of this unwanted news. i am certain it is the only place for my grasping arms to go. there is nothing else. no doctor. no report. no plan. no percentage. nothing which can replace the hem of my God's garment.

and so, with the weakest of arms, i reach for Jesus.

i turn to what i do most mornings, and reach for my devotional and His word. i've been spending time these past few months in a devotional called Jesus Calling.  this morning after a cancer diagnosis, i read today's message---
 

i may very well be weak in my reaching. my arms nothing more than frail bones blowing weightless in heavy wind, but my Father--my cloak-wearing-hem-healing-Father--My Father Holds Me. this has nothing to do with my strength. this has little to do with my limbs. my Father holds me tightly by my right hand and pulls me close, whispering soft into my troubled spirit, "I am here, child.  I am here. I am here."

and He reaches for me.

“He reached down from on high and took hold of me; He drew me out of deep waters.” Psalm 18:16

"with a mighty hand and outstretched arm; His love endures forever.  ~ psalms 136:12