It was my twenty-fifth birthday. My husband and I, married only six months at the time, were on our first furlough and were living in my parent’s house for a three-month break from life in the slums of Indonesia. We had arrived in the country five days prior and were still jet lagged.
It was a Sunday, a beautiful, summer, sun-shining Sunday. We walked to church. I was exhilarated from the joy of connecting with old friends, introducing my husband for the first time, and worshiping with such a loving community. My brother led worship, and I let the familiar songs – in the comfort of my own language – wash over me.
We walked home in the warm sunshine and lay down for a short nap. It was a perfect birthday, I thought.
Until lightning struck.
We heard the thunderbolt; it felt so close. It wasn’t even raining, and I realized in my half-awake/half-asleep state that it was strange to have lightning in the middle of a sunny day. We let ourselves drift back to sleep — until we were awakened by frantic voices in the living room.
As we wandered out to the living room to see what was going on, my parents explained in fearful voices that my brother had been hit by lightning and was being rushed by ambulance to the hospital. My brother’s friend stood in the living room, panting and out of breath. She had sprinted the half mile to my parents’ house to tell them the news.
How quickly life can change.
My brother almost died from the lightning strike. It hit him in his leg, leaving a scar that shows where the electricity traveled from his knee to his stomach. The lightning burnt out his cellphone and stopped his heart from beating. The paramedics saved his life, and he lived to tell the story.
Thanks be to God.
Except that one miraculous lightning-survival story does not mean that life will be easy sailing. My dear brother has had a fourteen-year-long journey with mental illness. He is funny, loving, and immensely gifted as a singer/songwriter; but bipolar disorder has landed him in the hospital many times since that lightning day. Sometimes, I happen to be on his side of the world when he is hospitalized, but more often than not I am thousands of miles away in Indonesia.
Family crises are heartbreaking. Even more so when we are separated by oceans and twelve time zones. It is hard for our loved ones, and it is hard on us. What can we do except lift our prayers to a God who is beyond limitations of space and time zones? We entrust ourselves – and our families – into the loving hands of a grace-filled God.
I have been thinking about this lightning event recently, as another crisis occurred on my birthday this year: my mother-in-law had a stroke. She was taken to the ICU and passed away two weeks later.
Life can be going so smoothly. We can have our laid-out plans and set routines, and then suddenly – like a lightning bolt – we find that everything seems to have changed. We find ourselves thrust into chaos and the unknown.
In times like these, I cling to the truth that God is a God who understands suffering. A God who is near to the brokenhearted and downcast. A God who is good even when life isn’t. A God who chose to take on flesh and humble Himself to suffer alongside humanity. He could have chosen an easier way, but he chose to incarnate—to be with us.
The disciples had their own “lightning bolt” moments as they followed Jesus. Probably the most striking example was the night that Jesus was betrayed. It was the night everything changed for them, followed by days of intense trauma and pain, as they watched their beloved leader die a criminal’s death. And yet we believe that the suffering Jesus endured on the cross did not get the last word. We cling to the hope of the resurrection: the belief that one day all will be made right.
Meanwhile, Jesus left his disciples with a tangible reminder: the practice of communion. As we break the bread and take the cup, we proclaim Christ’s death and resurrection. We acknowledge the brokenness and the hope that Christ experienced. We proclaim a new world coming.
Often, when my brother is experiencing manic episodes and has to be in the psych ward, he invites us to share communion. Sometimes it is with saltine crackers and apple juice, as we sit together during visiting hours. Other times, we have shared communion across the ocean, while connecting via a psych ward phone call. These precious times have highlighted for me once again, the beauty and the brokenness of following Christ.
Even when the lightning strikes, even when the storm is real, Christ is with us.
