A Jon Post

Have you ever watched a mother in labor? Have you watched her breathe through immense pain, strain muscles to prepare for the anguish of what she is about to do, and then put her head down and begin the hard and holy work of enduring what the curse of sin requires of her?

Have you ever watched a child look up a cliff face? Have you watched that child stare in wonder at the waterfall that comes down from above, marvel at the rainbow refracted off the mist in the air, then put her head down and begin the hard and holy work of climbing the cliff face, reflecting that mystery of the eternal that the Father placed in each of us to see what’s at the top?

Have you ever watched an old widow die of cancer? Watched her body fail her, her flesh begin to wilt, her pain rise above what is tolerable or humane, then see her put her head down and begin the hard and holy work of enduring what the sting of death gives, but also part of the mystery of the eternal which says to climb this hard thing and get to the top?

When that mother holds her newborn baby in her arms, the pain is not gone. Her body still trembles from its laborsong and Eve’s curse still lingers for days over that mother’s recovering body. The pain of childbirth is not relieved by simple birth.

When that child reaches the top of that cliff and looks over the edge, the torrent of water still rushing over the edge singing its hymn of creation. The waterfall doesn’t abate, doesn’t slow, doesn’t offer safety when viewed from the top, the child simply stands at the edge of dangerous places and witnesses the beauty of the difficult.

And when the old widow finally closes her eyes for the last time, maybe… just maybe… like the beauty of the birth is made sweeter by the travails of the labor, the widow’s entrance into a new home is made sweeter by the cliff face climbed through pain. Maybe, though the pain still roars by like the waterfall over the escarpment, the widow’s climb can be seen as beautiful.

There are hard and holy things that I do not understand.

Last week Isabel lay panting on our floor looking at me. Her abdominal pain excruciating and demanding. “This is suffering” she said through tears. “This hurts” she said again, as she reached for another handhold up the cliff. For a moment, through the mist created by her waterfall of pain I glimpsed the spiritual light behind it creating a riot of color and beauty.

“I see” I responded. “I see your pain.” I told her as she rolled onto her side hoping for relief.

Isabel still lives in pain here at Casa Ahavá. Her climb is not yet over, and the waterfall still rages over and through her.

But she is near the top.

And I believe the view from there is one of the things that you cannot see and live.

Please pray that we support her well in her climb and that what little strength we can lend her is enough.