All there

Jim Elliot’s words are haunting me today.

When you have a loved one who is not doing too well, the tiniest set-back/change gets to be very difficult. And that’s what happened this past weekend.  It wasn’t super serious, but it hit me hard.

Some of you may know what I’m talking about. It hurts to watch a loved one suffer.  I don’t know what to do/say half the time. And it’s even tougher when his response/communication is limited; I’m not a very good conversationalist if I don’t have “feedback.”

Come to think of it, I haven’t had a good conversation with him in over a year.

We weren’t super close; it’s not like we talked about everything. But he was always supportive, always interested in what was going on in my life. He was my biggest fan when I decided to move halfway around the world; he more or less learned how to use a computer just so he could do some research on my city, long before my job was guaranteed.

At one point, he knew more about this place than I did. 

And together, we’d laugh and laugh about the silliest things.  He was one of those guys who would latch on to a joke and just share it. With Every. Single. Person. And he'd do it while wearing that same, proud smile.

I haven’t seen that smile in about a year. 

It’s hard, too, to watch others around him suffering themselves.  He requires so much extra care, which just adds pressure to people with already busy, very full lives. I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve it; he does, and more. 

But that doesn’t mean it’s easy.

What’s even tougher is being in a land far, far away. I hear the pain, and I feel it, too. But other than talk and spend time on my knees ... there isn't much more that I can do right now .

Jim Elliot once said, “Wherever you are, be all there!”   So true!

Yet so hard.

My students need me here.  But my family is there. And no matter what I do here, my mind always drifts back there, to the helpless man – my father – lying in a hospital bed at my brother’s house.  I want something better for him – and, by extension, for my family.

In the end, though, I'm not in control.  So I wait, cry and trust. Trust that he's going to be alright there. Trust that my family will be given joy, peace, strength and hope to handle whatever they have to face there. 

And trust the same for myself here, so that I can be "all there" for those around me here.