Being Thankful for the Hard & Holy
“I’ve discovered that the best way to make friends with my troubles is to thank You for them. This counterintuitive act opens my mind to the possibility of blessings emerging from my difficulties. Moreover, when I bring You my prayers with thanksgiving, my anxiety diminishes and Your Peace that transcends all understanding guards my heart and my mind.”
– Jesus Listens, January 5th
“You and Ryan seem so calm.”
This was a phrase I often heard when Luke was in PICU for almost four weeks during December 2019 and into January 2020. We probably appeared calm because we’d experienced the worst-case scenario. Someone died on our watch in 2010. We’ve waded through the depths of hell and survived. Not only survived, but found immense joy on the other side of our grief, but that’s not the only reason.
What most people didn’t understand was how difficult my disabled son Luke was at fifteen years old. Baseline Luke was hard. The restlessness, constant high-pitched screams, puberty, incontinence, and the inability to verbalize what he wanted or even understand what he desired made it exhausting to raise this unique individual, but we did it. We went through the motions and thanked God for giving us a child who taught us numerous lessons through his fragile life. But it was still hard.
As Luke lay quietly sedated in PICU a few years ago, I was given a glimpse, a glimpse much like Nicholas Cage experienced in the beloved movie, Family Man. A twenty-five day glimpse of a different life. Not a life in ICU with beeping machines and lifesaving equipment; instead, a life at home; away from the beeping machines; a life I returned to after Ryan relieved me at the hospital; a life with the other kids. A life where I awoke to the rising of the sun and not to my fifteen year old screaming over the baby monitor. A life where I had the freedom to run to the grocery store for milk and not worry about who would stay with Luke; a life where I didn’t have to constantly decipher what my non-verbal child wanted, and a life void of diapers and wheelchairs and walls smeared with food from wherever he ate his last meal.
An easier life. A life of peace or more peace than I was used to. A life of occasional silence. A life without Luke.
Struggle has a way of forcing beauty to the surface. The pink cactus, planted in a dry, parched land, sinks its roots deeply into the brittle soil; willing its way to the surface—beyond the menacing thorns, the bright pink petals unfold in majestic glory as the soul reaches for the sun.
The hard, holy treasures of life. Dull glittering nuggets that contain what really matters—unearthed through trauma and agonizing moans and breaths that can’t be released and heartache that brings a mama to her knees as she begs God to intervene and heal her son.
I wrestled with the Almighty for days as Luke lay in ICU. Weeping, moaning, begging. My thoughts scary, laced with guilt. There’s peace, it’s quiet; my heart isn’t racing, I slept all night…
In the garden of Gethsemane, beside the cords and tubes and beeping machines, sweat dripping from my brow, pleading…
Father, grant me the strength to endure the hard, screaming, physically, emotionally, and spiritually draining cup you have asked of me to drink. Please spare my son. I choose him. I choose the difficult path you have called for me. I choose life. Give me the grace and strength to walk the road. Crucify every desire for prideful control. May I serve the least of these in your kingdom, and may I serve them joyfully. Yet not my will, but yours be done. Luke 22.
This is my road, my journey, and this is the way I must walk. I choose the narrow, parched path where only the pink petals bloom, the path lined with thorns and littered with dull and dirty nuggets—nuggets masking a priceless treasure beneath the smut and the grime, and the walls smeared with food. I choose hard and holy. I choose Luke again and again and again.
What circumstance do you need to reframe in light of eternity? Is it watching your teenager make bad choices? Or maybe your marriage is falling apart, or perhaps you’re barely scraping by while you watch your neighbor drive away in a new BMW. Whatever it may be, recognize that our hard and holy moments are seen by our Heavenly Father, and He will provide us with the strength we need to serve in difficult and sacred spaces.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Jessica Ronne is an author, speaker, podcast host of Coffee With Caregivers, associate producer of the UNSEEN documentary, and caregiver advocate. She is the founder and executive director of The Lucas Project, a nonprofit dedicated to serving parent caregivers with recognition, respite, and resources. Jess and her husband, Ryan, live in Michigan with their eight children, including their son Lucas who has profound disabilities. Her story of beauty from ashes is detailed in her memoir, Sunlight Burning at Midnight. To follow the ongoing saga, she can be found at jessplusthemess.com or by reading her most recent books, Blended With Grit and Grace and Lovin’ With Grit & Grace.
