There is no pit so deep that God's love is not deeper still.  (The Hiding Place).

Have you read The Hiding Place?  You have to.  You must.  You really need to read it.  I’m not giving orders here, but get on your Kindle or your Nook or your Ipad and download The Hiding Place by Cornelia ten Boom and Elizabeth and John Sherrill.  Now.

Sorry.  I’m in a bit of a mood.  Pretty sure it’s the fact that the weather in Atlanta took a rude turn a few weeks ago and I now need a shower every time I set foot outside my house, and sometimes, after I’ve folded warm towels in my supposedly air conditioned laundry room.  It could also be that we’re six weeks into summer and my kids have yet to be in camp at the same time, which means this mama is dangerously close to losing it if one of them asks me what's for lunch AGAIN.  Either way, I apologize for my tone.

Okay, so . . . back to The Hiding Place.  I know there are numerous books out there about World War II and the Holocaust and the amazing acts of love that existed among the horrific acts of hate.  But please, read this one. I insist.  (How was that?  Less offensive?)

It’s difficult for me to read about tragedies.  It’s hard to hear stories of suffering so immense it could only mean total devastation for someone like me – someone who has walked the easy road since birth and found blessings around every corner of my rather straight and narrow path.  And yet, I read them anyway.   They make me cry.  They make me cringe.  Worst of all, they make me doubt my belief because how could a great God allow such immeasurable pain.  The answer comes to me even now, instantly and without variation in word or tone. 

God condones the things he hates to accomplish the things he loves. 

I have to believe that statement.  If I don't, my faith is shaken almost to the point of nonexistence.  When I hear of something so awful I want to turn my back on God - a baby boy born too early to survive, a little girl abused by the only person she trusts, a marriage failed, a life destroyed - I have to remind myself of that statement.  I have to say it out loud, over and over until I can find the truth among those simple words.  And really, the words do make perfect sense, don't they?  Because how can we find gratitude for the good without first experiencing the bad?  How can we understand God’s dominion if we don’t exert our own power and fail?  How can we see God’s sovereignty if we haven’t floundered under our own authority?   How will we know God’s mercy if we’ve never been demeaned?  How will we view God as the most high if we’ve never been at the bottom?  How will we comprehend God as shepherd if we’ve never been lost?  How will we know God is everlasting if we haven't felt the pain as something ends?   How will we accept God as provider if we’ve never been without?  How can we receive God’s peace if we haven’t been at war?  How can we know God as healer if we’ve never been hurt?  How will we view God as almighty if we’ve never felt small?  How can we explain God’s righteousness without committing sin?  How will we see God as one who sanctifies if we’ve not been dishonored?  How can we know God’s grace if we’ve never had to forgive? How will we believe God is there if we haven't felt truly alone? 

I want to know the stories of humanity, tragic and otherwise.  I long to understand how and why we came to be who and what we are.  I need to understand that decisions made by simple, normal people have the power to change life for generations.  I want to comprehend how the words and actions and sacrifices of a single human being can make an impact on the world forever.  Stories like the one told in The Hiding Place stretch my horizons in uncomfortable ways.  They force me to remember the mistakes of the past.  They show me that sin is real.  They remind me that life will never be perfect.  They encourage me to realize that people, while capable of the most repulsive acts of hatred, are also capable of the most incredible acts of love.  Most importantly, stories like Cornelia ten Boom's allow me to see how God fits into all of it. 

When Corrie and her sister Betsy were forced to ride in a train car without food and water and fresh air for over two days, with eighty other women in a compartment that should have held only 40, with no way to relieve themselves except to simply do it, God was there.

When husbands and fathers and brothers and sons were lined up in a row and shot in the head because of their heritage, God was there.

When wives and mothers and sisters and daughters were beaten and battered and forced to do impossible things in hopeless conditions, God was there.

God was there then.  God is here now.   He’s everywhere.  He’s everything.  He’s in all of it.  I simply have to acknowledge his presence and let him work in my life the way he’s worked in every life since the beginning of time.  And I have to expect some pain and heartache and strife and loneliness and unrest, because without those things, I can’t fully experience the love and peace and grace and comfort and rest he so freely offers.

God is good.  Even among the severest of conditions and the most abhorrent of attitudes and the most detestable of behaviors, His goodness abounds.  Books like The Hiding Place help me to remember that.  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did.  I shed many tears.  I took many notes.  Much will stay with me.  And the next time I find myself in a sea of uncertainty, with waves of doubt drowning out the sound of truth, I might just read it again, and again, and again.

I recognized the emotion instantly, but it didn’t signal the typical dropping of shoulders and continuation of breath.  Instead, it coursed through my veins like a poison, making me twist in shame at my own ugliness.

There were other emotions mixed in.  Deep sadness.  Grave concern.  An intense desire to do something that might help.  Still, the most intense feeling wasn’t despair or worry or the need to assist.  My strongest emotion was the worst one imaginable.  It was relief.

Relief.

A mother announces to the world that her child has cancer.  The child is about the same age as my oldest child.  The relief was overwhelming.  It disgusts me to recall the way it poured over and into and through me like a wave.  I can feel the bile rise in the back of my throat as I’m reminded just how flawed I truly am.

I know the mother of this child with cancer, not well, but we would likely hug one another if we happened to be in the same place at the same time.   We would chat about our lives and our kids and our plans.  Three months ago, those plans involved tennis lessons and swim meets and summer vacations.  Today, my plans remain unchanged.  For the other mother, nothing is the same.  She’s no longer filling out camp applications and buying endless amounts of sunscreen for the hot, humid weeks ahead.  Today, that mother’s world revolves around chemotherapy and impossible decisions and life-changing surgery.

From an outsider’s perspective, I can almost understand why this family has been chosen to walk such a difficult road.  They are shining lights in a dim world.  They are amazing examples of what it means to believe in God, to lean on Christ, to spread the truth.  I have no doubt this family’s story will make a positive impact for months and years and generations to come.  Of course, I imagine this family can’t see things from my perspective. They are staggering through this deep, treacherous valley, while I stand securely on top of a hill.

When the announcement came, I wept.  I wept for the ten-year-old child whose world had been shattered into a million unknown pieces.  I wept for her father and her little brothers and sister.  I wept for other children like her who, at this very moment, are experiencing fear and pain and grief no child should ever know.  Most of all, I wept for her mother, who would have to try and pick up the pieces of a life drastically altered, and slowly put them back together in some way that might make sense.    

I’ve prayed for the ten-year-old child.  I’ve prayed for her father and her siblings.  I’ve prayed for healing and health and comfort and encouragement for the months and years of adjustment that lie ahead.  I’ve prayed this child and her family will never have to walk through such a terrifying valley again.  Most of all, I’ve prayed for the child’s mother.  I’ve prayed that one day, when the chemotherapy is over and the surgery is long past, she will wake up one morning and find peace restored in her heart . . .  and she will see the transformed dreams as a perfect plan meant to be fulfilled from the very beginning.  

And after I pray each day for this precious family in the midst of this dreadful battle, I pray for forgiveness.  I pray that God will take my damaged soul and turn it into something good . . . something not so broken . . . something more like Him.  I pray that God will help me become a person who isn’t so selfish, who doesn’t always think of herself first, who loves others as He did. I pray that the next time I hear of a child suffering, the first thing I think won’t be, thank God it’s not my child.

Acts 3:19 "Repent therefore and return, that your sins may be wiped away, in order that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord;