The Servant, the Showcase of God’s Glory

“Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!”

— ISAIAH 6:5 (NRSV)

FALLEN short, again. The words of Isaiah’s call seem to reflect so many little mirages and shattered fragments of my life. So many times my tongue is salacious and my lips are filthy. All because I look at all the wickedness around me and I find such fault with it that it affects me; I am drawn into it! I find I cannot reconcile it and I get utterly forlorn when all I seek is to be in an environment of 24/7 honesty and authenticity breeding inviolable trust and consummate respect — the perfect world of love. The witness of crooked tongues, and lives set on controlling others, are my torment and death. And yet, in my despondency I become the one who is crooked, for I cuss like a demon. Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips…

… Yet (if I cast my mind back) my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!

Consider this gem:

“Everything that God does in this secret shaping of the Servant has one end in view: to make the servant what God’s people as a whole are intended to be — the showcase of God’s glory.”

— Selwyn Hughes

Inspired of Isaiah 49:3, the servant is purposed and destined to display God’s splendour. That is what God’s people, Israel of the Old Testament, the Church of the New, is intended to do. We were made for greater things than cussing and crooked talk.

We are ennobled to exist in a perfect world to come, whilst we are purposed to inhabit this life with humility — and, yet, we will often be humiliated because we confuse the two. We are wrong to think we are already there.

And, still, we have laid eyes and hands on the secret glories of the King. We have tasted his Majesty. Why else would we have set our standards so high?

***

The Christian world is one huge disappointment, for all have fallen short of the glory of God. Yet, it is to such dizzying heights we are to, again, climb!

The servant’s purpose in showcasing the glory of God is to showcase love for the sinner whilst condemning the sin. This is such a hard thing to do. Yet it must start.

Single-minded is little Israel — the single organism embodying the representation of one nation — in being a manifestation of God’s eternal brilliance, even in this mortal life.

Operating at God’s good pleasure is never an easy task. It requires continual confession and regular repentance. It can be the loneliest of paths, but it is replete with God’s blessing, known only beyond this world.

***

Sinner, though saved,

Sanctified, yet depraved,

Sick past, his glory,

Redeemed, his story.

© 2015 Steve Wickham.

Prayer of the Person Who Looks Back at Life From Heaven

THIS is a prayer for anyone who seeks to imagine what it might be like to pray from heaven, back into lives remaining on earth:

Gracious God of Heavens and Earth,

You have saved me — that I cannot know more than now! As you allowed your Son to be crucified for the atonement of the sins of humankind, and as he soon passed from earth into heaven — the firstborn of eternity — you have made that way for me. I believed it by faith and now I know by sight. Thank you, heavenly Father.

What could I pray for, for those remaining captive in the life assignment on dear earth? My heart goes out to them; having lived the life, I know what they face. And I sense the day is longing into an end time beyond parallel and there is nothing they can do but hope for a dear eternity — for it surely awaits them.

But, Spirit of my holy God, be in them in as much as to inspire meaning for life — to make the very most of what they have until they are called home to this incredibly surreal and hardly believable Paradise. Make them to pine so much for heaven as to live the fullest life they can in their mortal bodies. Make them not to fret too much for me, for I am deliciously fine! There is nothing wrong with my ‘world’ — make them to hope perfectly upon such perfection of environment.

As I pray back into life on earth, and into the lives of those I ever more love from here, the only sadness in my heart is of the times of unbelief I see. Lord, make them to believe! I know that you will not make them, but usher them toward good choices by your Spirit. Help them to know their choices on earth matter in eternity. Help them to believe upon the Holy Scriptures, for what is written is true.

And finally, Lord, help them not to worry for me. Help them know I eagerly wait for them, but that, now, waiting is never too long for me. Give them that hope. Help them offset their grief with this hope.

I ask this in Jesus’ precious name always, whom I have seen and touched and heard with my own ethereal senses, AMEN.

***

Imagine meeting Jesus as some of your relatives and friends have already. As we rise in the fleetingist moment, to gaze upon the celestial shore, we too will meet him, face to face. Everything, in one instant, will have been worth it — being with God.

© 2015 Steve Wickham.

Something of a Proof for God’s Existence and Our Need

DEATH, the final reconciler of a life lived either for or against God.

The fact of death separates us out from divinity, eternal. We have nothing that compares nor comprehends the fact that we will die; we will all die. We will pass from this life. Even if we didn’t believe in eternity, heaven or the afterlife, we must surely agree that this life is fleeting — it comes and then it goes, as if a candle’s flame whisked away by the wind.

Consider this poem, drawn, in some part, from Psalms 14 and 53:

The fool says “There is no God,”

They do wickedness and fear no rod,

Yet their ailing bones find it true,

Like we all find; their lives they rue.

Life after life is the end of life’s show,

When we have no say over where we go,

The very fact of death proves the Lord,

To refuse God is something we cannot afford.

We have no say over the time and way of our deaths, yet there is a force postulated that possibly knows already all those facts and more.

We might have a great deal to say about what we think, say and do beforehand, but there is a day coming where all that will end.

***

Death is the final answer to the atheist. No longer will life be an instrument of rebellion against God. At death everything is at conjecture. Nothing can be expected. Death is both certain and uncertain: it will certainly happen, ending our ‘control’ over this life; and, it is absolutely uncertain, in that what happens then is totally unpredictable.

Who would be the fool to discount the existence of God given they, like all of us, are destined for such a certain uncertainty? Of course, we Christians believe upon Scripture, and we believe in something glorious, which actually gives our lives purpose and meaning in this life, and a transcendent hope for the next.

The fact of death is an eventuality. We live. We die.

Death is something of a proof for God, and our need of such an eternal Lord.

To the atheist: Because death is absolutely certain and the nature of life after death is absolutely uncertain it pays, at the least, to keep an open mind. Could your inevitable death be the one indicator you need to acknowledge?

Our lives are controlled externally — at least the length and quality of our lives. Has to make us think, doesn’t it?

© 2015 Steve Wickham.

Broken Within, Blessedness Begins

LONELY variance to joy, sorrow beyond compare, a rising anger for the fact of experience; a reality of life all too common. We all have our bad days, grating hours, and moments of insanity. All ‘bargains’ of living the human existence. We are, due the fall, broken vessels, and forlorn, but for God’s abiding grace — but we must abide if he is to abide in us — if we are to receive any divine help at all. God will not force us one iota.

Broken within is where blessedness begins:

We know when we are weak,

We are so angry we cannot speak,

Right now we have no hope,

Right now no hope to cope.

But waiting on the Lord,

We find is all we can afford,

He who helps us beyond our sins:

Brokenness is where blessedness begins.

AT THE END IS THE BEGINNING

Concepts of salvation and glory are almost always paradoxical — upside down to our logic. It doesn’t mean we go into illogicality instead of logicality, but it does mean God’s logic is different to ours.

Our logic commends us to desperation when we are at the end of ourselves — when everything we have tried is rendered useless. But God uses desperation as a lock into the Kingdom; and, every lock has a key. That key, for this circumstance of desperation, is surrender.

The further we are taken away from God, the closer we actually are. One about-face and there he is, more amenable than ever!

The fact is, when we are most spiritually perturbed, two polar opposite things are possible: 1) we might stubbornly resist any force acting on us and, therefore, resist God’s invitation to break the deadlock, or 2) we might finally submit to the only help that is available.

Submission is wisdom and stubbornness is folly. Submission seems weak, but it is actually strength personified. Stubbornness insists on believing one’s own way is best. Frustration ensues.

***

The best, most serene hope when we feel most broken is to submit to God.

When we submit to a force that can only be good, ultimately we have made a wise choice, no matter how much it seems to cost us in the early going.

What doesn’t work is to continue to rail against God and life. We know it only makes us angrier. What works is to go against what seems logical — to surrender our pitiful strength so as to have God make his peculiar strength of grace available to us.

Brokenness, as it is acknowledged, is closest of all human states to truth.

Because God’s blessedness loves brokenness, being broken within is where blessedness begins.

© 2015 Steve Wickham.

The One Blessing We All Miss In Our Prayers

WHAT is the one thing that could transform our lives for the betterment of truth and understanding? How are we to be made mature in one swift movement? Why are we not brought to spiritual perfection this instant rather than in the celestial realm? When are we to realise the life that lies in wait of our discovery?

All these questions might be answered in the form of prayer, but not just any kind of prayer. An almost unimaginable prayer these heady days.

LISTENING, in one word, is the Blessing we miss in our prayers, because we have all fallen for the lie that prayer is speaking to God. Prayer has become something we ‘actively’ engage in — it’s like we must do something, like speak, initiate some way, and respond to the silence by darkening it with our very human thoughts in spoken ways.

Our ways are not God’s ways, nor are our thoughts, God’s thoughts. Yet we still darken so many of our prayer spaces in being loud and effusive. We must be vexations to God at times. All in the name of prayer.

We could, otherwise, find it our privilege to sit, lay or stand, and silently look within or without. We could order our moment solemnly. We could attest to the majesty of God and measure our praises out into the openness of a determined, silent wonder. Would we let such a prayer have any limit? No, limits of such there can be none!

Why will we insist on missing Blessing, when we would otherwise subterfuge the Lord’s amazing power and Presence with our spoken efforts? Our spoken efforts may be ordered or they may be unordered. We might pray them with poise or pray them in a plundering way. We might impress ourselves with our eloquence. Worse still, we might impress others.

But we still haven’t learned the first thing about prayer.

Prayer is divine when we are patient enough with God that we can simply sit, surrendered, and wait.

Prayer is at its obedient best when we are patient enough in ourselves that we can simply sit, surrendered, and wait.

***

To spend time in silence is to spend time in respectful prayer.

God is worshipped solemnly when we attune ourselves to listen.

Prayer is listening keenly for the will of God.

To pray is to communicate to God. But it is just as much God communicating to us, through our reflections on our own lives.

Prayers that are spoken are like silver. And yet, silence is golden.

© 2015 Steve Wickham.

The Privilege to Care

PASTORS know it is a blessing, an honour, a privilege to care.

We care not so much for those who have life-altogether-thank-you-very-much. These people don’t need our care. They don’t need our care, yet.

I learned in AA that “yet” is a very important word. “You’re eligible, too!” is what it means. It goes along with the saying, “It’ll never happen to me.” We just never know when and why and how we will need care. Until then we never realise its importance.

Pastors know how important care is. Not just those who are called “pastors,” for there is some wolves in the sheepfold, and I am not thinking of particular persons; just it’s a fact. Sadly, not everyone is who they appear to be.

But the pastor knows they exist to care.

Sure, a pastor is also possibly a preacher, but their core role is to care — and by their fruit we shall know them!

The ‘Fruit’ of Care

Only when we are tested do we find out what our true mettle is.

Privileged to care, there is a great sense of purpose in the person who knows they are in the right place at the right time to care. There is often the perception of anointing — the felt experience of “God has placed me right here, for now, for this exact purpose.” What is felt can be something akin to that goose bumps feeling.

We cannot take any credit for being faithful in such a moment, because we are blessed to be there. Rather than taking credit, we can only be silently thankful.

The fruit of care is initiated by the times we go forth by faith, trusting in the leading of God’s Holy Spirit, when we might be otherwise conflicted; there are other distractions, perhaps. Then, the fruit of care is known by the comparatively rare experience of being a powerful instrument in the hand of God for the vulnerable.

They are loved, accepted, supported, affirmed, urged on and encouraged, and in receipt of kindness and compassion — in ways that they, alone, define.

***

Those we care for are Jesus Christ, himself — they are the “least of these.” (See Matthew 25:40, 45) It is always a privilege to care for the Lord, just as he would (and does) care for us.

It is how we tell if people are “pastors” or not: that they feel privileged to care.

But it is not only pastors who feel privileged to care; any true Christian will feel it is a blessing and an honour to serve the needy. And, honestly, we are all only one significant circumstance away from being a needy person.

What a wonder it is to love,

What a blessing a burden to bear,

To honour someone’s needs,

What a privilege it is to care.

To care is to love, accept, support, affirm, urged on, encourage, buoy up, to convey kindness, and shower with compassion. It is a privilege to care.

© 2015 Steve Wickham.

Where Is God When There’s So Much Suffering Out There?

ABANDONED by God. That is how life has been experienced by vast numbers of people. They feel they have been brought into a world that so depends on God, yet they find when they most need him, he’s nowhere to be found. It’s a shattering discovery — the one who they had hoped to discover was found to be indiscoverable.

Such is life, they deduce. There is no god.

But we sort of know that God has to be there, because there is still no viable help in the suffering, otherwise. We cannot escape the existential twists of life, no matter how sensible or rich or successful we are. There is still so much suffering. The existence of suffering, and the pointlessness of it, points us to the existence of God — and not the other way around.

Then we try our hand at any number of distractions, diversions and denials, and, in living the life of Solomon, we find that nothing makes life better; fleeting vanities only halt the inevitable sorrows for a moment.

Suddenly we are found on a precipice. We are in the land of decision and we go over into the abyss of anger or we back off and learn something of God we don’t want to accept. We either rail hard against God (an ever futile exercise) for not being more active or we accept the deduction (an ever fruitful exercise) that God will not be coerced. Life is what it is — suffering and all.

Suffering and God’s help; how can we know there is a connection?

There are myriads of God’s views on suffering in the Bible.

In the Bible:

God is for the oppressed and against the oppressor.

God is for faithful leadership and against tyrannical governance.

God is for fairness and equity of humanity — based on true human rights — and against discrimination of minorities.

God must hate the idea of bizarre equalities — those ‘equalities’ that brandish sin — but he is vehemently against atrocities, like homophobic behaviours where people are abused because of their lifestyle. Nobody should be abused for their lifestyle. Nobody should be abused, period.

God is friend most of all to the needy. The needy ought to suffer only so much that they reach out to God and imagine him there, with them, in their distress.

***

The only way we can know that God is interested and empathic about suffering is to read the Bible. And, because life is so subject to suffering, we ought to know God exists, and that he is the only Comforter for anyone who suffers.

© 2015 Steve Wickham.

When Dark Night Comes In Broad Daylight

ABANDONED by God. At least it feels that way. You know those times when your soul feels all upended over the floor and there is nothing there to help. No voice of God to reassure, to redirect, to reconfirm your call. It is a lonely place where you just want to shrivel and die. The only stipulation: do it quickly and quietly.

When dark night comes in broad daylight we want to hit the ejector button.

We simply seek a place of solace — a sanctuary — where the safety of our spiritual protection is fully enabled; where nobody can get in and mess with our numbed sense for existing without bother. If we must exist — and at times like this, there is no point — we want at least the peace of not being bothered by anyone or anything. We want somewhere to curl up in a ball.

(Sorry if this is depressing for you; it’s helping me right now.)

The dark night always seems to come without warning; unannounced in the midst of an otherwise happy day. Suddenly the clouds drift over the very area we occupy. The rest is history. For a time we are caught in a vacuum; hardly able to utter a word; no sense even to move. Paralysed spiritually.

There is a downside to being committed to honesty. When we have nothing to show for our faith, then we are forlorn. When we have nothing to show for God’s work in our lives — because of this dark night amid the day — we are no witness of God. When we are committed to living a life of truth, faking it won’t work. Faking it is no longer part of our arsenal. Denial of how we really feel is no longer an option.

And yet, God must be satisfied to use us in polar weakness!

When there is no purpose there is no hope. When there is no vision the people flounder (Proverbs 29:18). So, somehow, when we are faced with a dark night situation in broad daylight, it could be linked with a forlorn sense of existence, i.e. without purpose.

***

When a vacuum sucks purpose dry from within the core of life we enter into a dark night, even in broad daylight. Nothing can talk us around. Only God by his Holy Spirit — divine strength for a perplexing weakness. We must pray. We must seek a way through, but it will be by rest and recreation, not by pushing our way through.

When dark night comes in broad daylight we pray that light to expel the darkness.

No purpose, no vision, no hope >>> go to God >>> know purpose, know vision, know hope.

© 2015 Steve Wickham.

Remembering How Nathanael Changed Our Lives 1 Year On

OUR world changed on Tuesday, July First, Twenty Fourteen, about 11 Ante Meridiem. Dread surged through our hearts, when, as the doctor’s demeanour took on a teary sternness, he sat forward to deliver devastating news — “… I am so very sorry… you will need to be strong for each other… it will be a long journey.” Our baby was growing fine, but internal organs were horribly misplaced due to a congenital diaphragmatic hernia — liver high, heart transposed, no room for lungs to develop, kidneys incredibly enlarged, and nothing that could be done.

The experience leaving the ultrasound rooms that day was cataclysmic — nobody should experience what we experienced. We didn’t know where to look. We felt like imposters. Riddled with a sense of numbed doom in the place of the hope and joy we had only an hour previous. I recall being livid that I couldn’t protect my wife who was a torrential mess, as we negotiated the mess of construction works around the new medical centre. It wasn’t the workers’ fault; how were they to know? That, we had just received news nobody is ever ready to receive. Still, I wished I could have barked, “Get out of our way!”

The journey home was surreal — something you never forget. Our then 15-month-old son was whimpering, having discerned something was very wrong; Mum and Dad in tears in the front. We remember being astounded that he picked up our emotions so intuitively. The rest of the day was unreal, as were the next few days, though God’s Presence was somehow there with us, empathising, in our resigned sense of numbness; a truth-filled hopelessness all-too-real in our reality.

That day, a day etched in our memory, we entered a horrendous four-month waiting game, book-ended by the day we learned our horrific news and by the day our baby was born, still.

Back on day one, we waited for what seemed an eon for our private obstetrician to get back to us about what to do. He phoned only a few hours later; he was so very sad for us. He referred us to the specialist obstetric service at our major public hospital. The few days we had to wait seemed much longer than just a couple of days. As I look back I think we were in such a state of shock. During such a time people would outstrip us with their spoken thoughts when we simply needed them to be there for us — no words, no spoken thoughts, nothing. No words dignify numbness.

On July Fourth, Sarah had another scan and an amniocentesis, which was a test to determine if there were other abnormalities in our baby — especially chromosomal abnormalities. That waiting game was a two-week roller coaster, and, truth be told, we were anxious all the way through it — each and every day. We got the ‘short results’ within a few days; no abnormalities were detected — such relief! But then it sunk in that we still had the long results to come. Anything could still happen. The sick irony was, even at the last gasp, we thought everything was okay, having had the all-clear earlier on Friday, July Eighteenth. That was until about 4.30pm. This was the moment the full results were finally known. Sarah took the call, her parents were there, and I was out getting Sarah flowers. We will never forget, about 5pm, sitting stunned at the end of our bed. Like, what just hit us? Moments like this you cannot shake a mind that will not let go of the new information — not for days!

Our baby was diagnosed with Pallister-Killian Syndrome (PKS), an incredibly rare twelfth chromosomal condition affecting only a few hundred people in the world. Our baby’s case was complicated by the internal organ issues. Both conditions together compounded our case. Our baby was defying the limits just living and growing. It was the direst prognosis. And PKS, it needs to be recognised, is generally a much worse condition than, say, Down Syndrome. Most people with PKS never walk or talk, and many are profoundly intellectually disabled.

So our hopes suffered another death that very moment. The more we researched PKS, the more our hopes plummeted. Yet, we were still preparing for a life-changing moment. We really did feel very raw and vulnerable, but we knew the worst was still ahead. And, yet, through this cauterising season, God provided for us through contact with the PKS community both locally and globally — relatively small but tight-knit groups. I met dozens of PKS parents online and we met one PKS family in our home city (whom we were quickly friends with). For all the questions we had, they had the best answers. They knew more than the medicos. Their love and the love and prayers of many others from within our church community and beyond helped. We felt carried. We dearly did.

August was a very terrible month.  We were pushed to the limit, physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. I was thankful for my writing as a way to solace with God some of what I was processing. We thanked God that our baby was still safe within the womb, and felt all we could do was trust God in the midst of our grief. We were in the throes of a grief observed. During this time we were learning new things all the time. Sarah certainly learned about the negative power in such an innocent question — (being asked with a smile) “Are you pregnant?” You don’t realise how many people bring up the matter of pregnancy until you find you are in a position where you don’t want to talk about it. Sarah would respond, “Yes, I am pregnant, but we are not expecting a good outcome.” It would turn many moments south. But most people understood.

We noted during this time, in the ambiguity of this grief, the fact that our only real need was love — that we had everything we needed, which didn’t make things easy, just easier. We continued to pray. And many others prayed for us. It was enough considering nothing could be done but wait this out and step each day forward in faith. And yet, there was a source of cruelling anguish in us for the lack of love we received from one very important entity to us. We were at our most vulnerable, yet such a dearth of care was experienced in one quarter that still defies our sensibility. But such a dichotomy only proved to steel our faith. And, now, this very situation God has used; it has caused us to dig deeply to forgive that element. God is so good.

It was actually early in August that we learned that our baby, in the words of our Professor obstetrician, deserved “comfort and respect.” We had to grapple with hard things that are difficult, if not impossible, to understand — our baby would not survive. We met the paediatrician once, and he, along with the infant loss coordinator, took us through what to expect at the birth. It was a teary meeting. Our son would probably just gasp for breath and pass away within thirty minutes. He was given a five percent chance of lasting hours to a day. The medical team would not do anything “heroic.” They were talking about our baby here! There was quite a sense of rage within us, but we felt tempered by an acceptance we could only thank the Holy Spirit for.

We were finally in a position to send out a letter to our church family — locally and globally — with our heartbreaking news. We urged everyone to continue to pray. And we received so much support. On the day we learned that our baby wouldn’t survive (August Sixth) I wrote an Ode to Our Ailing One. And yet, we were still standing, observing — even, for me, marvelling — at the storm clouds as they slowly, even benignly, formed off in the distance, set later for mass deluge; a flooding cyclonic destruction. The hardest days were still some time away. And, still, there were some moments to reflect over the fact that our baby would be healed in eternity with comparatively little pain to be experienced in this life. At this time we would often find our heads and hearts in heaven. Heaven was the only solace.

All through this period I was wondering, though it was hard, why it was also so comparatively easy. I had experienced this anguish before, and God had taught me to endure it by enduring it. That, and people’s prayers, and the veracity of our faith. But I could see how being scorched by the Refiner’s Fire eleven years ago had helped in that day. It made me who I was now.

Because of our baby’s condition, there was a hyper-production of amniotic fluid. Sarah would need multiple amnioreduction procedures. Sarah had her first amnioreduction procedure (the first of eight) on August Twelfth — at 25 weeks gestation. These procedures involved the medical team inserting a needle into Sarah’s womb under ultrasound and draining two litres and more each time; a process taking an hour or more. More than once the needle came into contact with our baby — and once it drew blood! We sincerely prayed the baby would not come, which, by the very nature of the procedure, threatened to bring labour on. Each procedure was stressful, yet by God’s grace we took it in our stride. Sarah looked as though she was almost full term already due to the extra amniotic fluid our baby was producing. Sarah was always very brave during these procedures.

Peculiarly, I recall God saying to me, routinely, by September, “Steve, I’m giving you just enough time to do everything.” I found this very encouraging, because I knew all we could do was plan and prepare — this we could do. I (and we) were not going to fail this moment; the most important of our lives to date. We were not going to go A.W.O.L. when we needed to be there for each other as the doctor had urged us to do.

Throughout late August until Nathanael Marcus was finally born, still, we took every opportunity we could to take him out on dates as a family. We loved the thought of spending time — the four of us. It was all we could do. We did what we could.

The clouds on the horizon were darkening all the time through September and we feared the storm was imminent. All along we felt that, not always realising we were actually in the midst of the storm already. About this time, we received the “palliative care plan” for our unborn child — yes, unconscionable; a palliative care for an unborn child.

By September’s end, we were ready I think — ready in our minds and ready in our hearts. And that was fortunate, for there was another storm about to roll in — a project God had earmarked us for — even in the abyss of life as it was for us. I was quickly reminded, and often, through October, when I was running the household, those earlier words of the Lord: “I’m giving you just enough time to do everything, Steve.” Now those words took on a special significance. Those days in October were difficult to fathom; that such a need had arisen in another family that God had called us to help pastorally within. A desperate situation for all concerned. A situation of anguish for those we had come to love as our own. Only God could orchestrate within us the grace to avail ourselves to this. So we had not just this issue of heartrending grief to deal with, but an inane occupational issue, and an urgent pastoral issue as well — three-in-one, a trinity of tribulation, with God’s grace still so sufficient to hold us! Amazingly, we still had the sense that God had ordained this very season — all of it.

Early during this month we also had the opportunity to sow into our impending pain. It was too easy to be annoyed with people who superimposed their own lens for grief over our own. We were being real and occasionally people did actually get it; what we were going through. Again, there was much cause for grace for those who didn’t or couldn’t understand where we were at. We desired affirmation and encouragement, not pity or advice. When all was said and done, we simply hoped forward to the time we would finally meet our son alive. To meet him alive was our extant and exigent hope.

God was still readying our hearts as we approached the birth. We were introduced to the song that meant most to us at this time. As we reflected over the fact that grief had chosen to visit us again, we still found comfort in song, in Scripture, in prayer, and in each other. It Is Well took on profound meaning for us; that sadness and grief is the very key into the heartway of God.

Throughout this time, as some sort of compensation, even a form of healing in advance, God continued to birth in me ideas related to brokenness and grief and reflection, among other things. I’m thankful for the encouragement of others at what God was giving me to write on. I’d been writing on brokenness and grief for years, and suddenly I was finding my experience aligned with my theology — a revelation for affirmation. This brought immense comfort, relief and peace. What I believed and practiced and wrote about was real and my faith was operant.

The final weeks and days of this four-month journey God continued to hold us as we continued daily to trust in him, despite the wind and waves that incredulously still know and bow to Jesus’ name. God can still calm those winds and waves as he was doing for us.

***

Nathanael was stillborn silently sometime on the Thursday afternoon, October Thirtieth. He died due to cord prolapse somewhere between 3.30pm and 6.30pm. The moment the midwife told us, at 6.30pm, was surreal. I just don’t know how to describe it. It was probably the worst moment of all. I skated between solacing the midwife whose disposition changed markedly, hugging a grief-stricken Sarah for minutes at a time, and wrestling with my own emotions. That was one moment that seemed unreal — as I look back — even though my experience of it, at the time, felt never realer. No sooner had scans been done to verify what we already knew, Sarah started to spike a fever; infection was rapidly tearing through her body. They injected three different intravenous antibiotics into Sarah as the situation became critical over one half hour. I swabbed Sarah’s forehead with wet towels as she shivered and I genuinely worried that I’d lose her. An emergency caesarean section was ordered. The caesarean section was, like most things at this point, surreal. It was a moment where I prayed, “God, give me the strength for what I’m about to experience; to meet my deceased son.” The staff assisting us were either awkward, distant or gentle with us. I chose to simply relate with each of them as real as I could. Sarah was still quite ill. God gave me strength to stay actively in the moment and not think too much. I later recorded my reflections on actually meeting Nathanael.

***

We had 179 hours with Nathanael. We made every moment count. We made little videos and took lots of photographs. We held his little lifeless body as much as we could and had him present in the room with us as much as possible. One of my favourite photos was one Sarah took from her bed as I cradled Nathanael in my arms on the hospital room floor. All our family came to see us in hospital. Heartfelt gave us the most astonishing gift — professional photoshoot and professionally produced photos at no cost with lots of love.

Nathanael’s funeral was arduous for Sarah. I broke down most when the hearse left the church; such sorrow that he really was gone now. But I felt unbelievably real throughout — full of God’s strength for the moment. It was not hard for me to be there for others as I normally would have been. I felt so privileged to share a eulogy for Nathanael. A formal goodbye is so dignifying, and everyone who attended honoured not only Nathanael’s memory, but they honoured us as a family. After the ceremony, when everyone had left, we went home. I put Sarah into bed and I took my children (the remaining four) out for lunch. Sarah and I had a quiet weekend and following week. The week following we went away thanks to the generosity of good friends.

***

Our shining gift of God was born on an incredibly special day — another sign among the many that God was with us — and his birthday reminds us, evermore, of a special person we love who we also interceded for, because it was his birthday this day, too.

I wrote a few articles with Nathanael Marcus cradled in my arms. We endured those days as if we were carried. We just did what we could. We kept stepping by faith. And God gave us people to love us and to uphold us in prayer. It wasn’t as hard as one might think. But, for what we experienced, the memories never vanish.

Now, one year on, there is a loneliness in my heart for the richness of God’s Presence in that cavernous place, and of others’ love back then. Strangely, I miss those days. And I thank God that we felt carried through them. And, as I said many times during the past year, believing — God is good. As for the future, we feel equipped for a future storm, yet we will inevitably be found wanting enough to need to rely fully on God.

That, I praise God for.

***

An Afterword

Reflecting over our story, a bank of resources has been created. We feel these resources are not only there for us, for our own memories, but they are there for others, too. Please partake. Get what you are interested in or what you may need.

The following hyperlinks point directly to articles I wrote during the year that was July, Twenty Fourteen to June, Twenty Fifteen:

On eternity… we know that we will go to Nathanael; that he will not come to us.

On time… we can only make the most of the time we have; once it’s gone, it’s gone.

On reflection… to sit in our pain and to digest it in truth is life.

On love and loss… love sows, but inevitably reaps loss.

On emotions… there is only one thing for the myriad emotions.

On pain… simply, our pain is precious to God.

On not aborting… the sanctity of human life (from conception) is very important.

On wholeness… there is always the fear in grief — will I ever be the same again.

On courage… actually meeting my deceased son — what was that like?

On anticipation… what I wrote the night before Nathanael’s funeral.

On heaven… loss of a believing loved one entreats curiosity for heaven.

On precious moments… during our stay with Nathanael in hospital.

On reconciliation… one beautiful day we will be reconciled to our son.

On anniversaries… preparing for our son’s first birthday.

On advice… why we don’t need to be told how to grieve and 10 reasons we were okay.

On healing… what starts out as anguish ends in healing if the truth is borne.

On early adjustment… this is a reflection four weeks after the loss of our son.

On being okay… in feeling okay after loss, there is no need to feel guilty.

© 2015 Steve & Sarah Wickham and family.

Image Credit: Erin Tuckey. This photograph was taken at Nathanael’s funeral on November Seventh, Twenty Fourteen, during my eulogy for him.