There is a certain mingling of grief and hope when praying for someone you love who is sick. I think of this often when I read the story of the men that brought the paralytic to Jesus. (Luke 5:17-26)
I have been on my knees for the health of a loved one. I have prayed and researched doctors. I have read books and articles. I have watched vials upon vials of blood be drawn. I have put supplements in “days of the week containers,” cooked gluten free, dairy free, egg free and figured out how to make yogurt.
All the while, praying. Praying that the doctors would find causality, praying that the loved one would be strong, praying that they would be better. Praying and keeping hope and disappointment at bay. And I have done this for years.
In these times of supplication (fancy word, but it’s just so appropriate), I think of the men on that roof bringing their sick friend to Jesus.
I think of them on their knees. The sun, bright on the pale roof and hot on their backs. Their hands clawing at the thatch and plaster and stone. They use tools to remove the larger supports, and stones. They work together, tearing through one more layer, one more obstacle, and then another. Plaster under their nails, dust and dirt darkening their sweaty brows.
Muscles achy, they begin to get the bed through the hole and lower it down slowly, the rope slicing into their already sore hands.
All this to get him to Jesus, to get him help, to get him hope.
I think of all the things they do. Because in the helplessness of a chronic illness, you are desperate for something to do. To be working towards a goal or a purpose. But in the seaming hopelessness of chronic illness, sometimes all you can do is bring them to Jesus and ache.
This seems like a very sad passage. The illness we live with is not severe. There are many that struggle with much worse.
And I have peace and contentment about our health issues. It was a long road to get there, but God held my hand and walked me through. (Such an easy sentence to write such a long road to reach.)
But every time I hear the story of the paralytic, I think of that hot roof, those heavy muscles, sore hands and chapped knees, and all those caregivers that pray for their loved ones with plaster under their nails.
You’re not alone.
Taffy the Great 