3. Never Alone
JASPER NATIONAL PARK,
ALBERTA, CANADA,
AUGUST 1971
And there they go.
What I just did was the hardest thing … staying casual and cheerful while they tied on bandanas, laced up hiking boots, and filled canteens. I know they felt bad for me, staying alone here in camp. (They kept glancing at me out of the corners of their eyes, to see if I was really okay with it.) But I also know that this is Jasper National Park in the Canadian Rockies, and who knows if we’ll ever be back. I could tell they were itching to get some hard exercise, to get their hearts pumping and explore the ridge together. I can hear their voices a quarter mile away—sound carries at this high elevation in the clear mountain air. Kathy and Jay, my sisters, off together to conquer the ridge line on the shoulder of Whistler’s Mountain—and then to walk up the mountain as far as they can go. They’ll be gone for hours.
How I ache to go with them.
I thought I just heard Kathy’s laugh as they climb the trail. There they are … two colored dots moving up the ridge. Kathy’s gold vest, and Jay’s red. And now they’re over the ridge and out of sight.
I have been trying so hard not to ruin this camping trip for everyone by getting depressed or feeling sorry for myself. Dad and Mom are off in the village, getting supplies, maybe a cup of coffee, looking around, just enjoying being together. And my sisters are talking and laughing up beyond me somewhere, seeing the world from a higher place.
I told them I’d be fine, that I really wanted to read, and would enjoy the peace and quiet. They propped up a book for me, but after they’d gone, my first attempt to turn the dog-eared page with a shrug of my shoulder and arm splint sent the book facedown into the dirt. It’s still there. I can’t get at it or do anything about it. Now I’ll just have to wait until somebody gets back.
But I want to explore too. I was always the daredevil, pushing life to the edge, doing crazy stunts on horseback, challenging myself to do more. And now I just want to feel the trail under my feet and the morning sun on my face, warming my hair and the tops of my shoulders. I want to smell the fir trees, and the dust kicked up on the trail. I want to breathe hard, feel my leg muscles burn from the climb and the sweat pop out on my back. I want to look west from a high vista and see the peaks of these Northern Rockies on the horizon.
Mostly, I just want to be with Kath and Jay. And laugh. And talk about normal things. Silly things.
I can’t help it. I just feel so alone.
God help me, please. For their sake … don’t let me fall back again.
Sometimes I can feel myself getting too close to the edge of that cliff, and I don’t want to go there. I’ve been there too many times over the last two years, and it’s a long, long fall. Every time it’s happened, I’ve wondered if I would ever climb out again.
Day after day, I would just stay in bed and ask Mom to leave the lights out and the door closed. Listening to the steady hum of the air conditioner, I daydreamed of the days on my feet, how things felt in my hands and fingers, and all the things I used to do and can never, never do again in this world. The awful finality of it all! And then I would feel the room tilting and I would be sliding downward toward that pit, where there’s no light, no air, that evil place where all those demons lurk, the ones that tormented me in the hospital. If I ever hit bottom, I don’t know what would happen. Maybe I’d go crazy. Maybe I’d never come back to sanity.
So I can’t do that. Can’t go there. I can’t. But it’s so quiet and everyone’s been gone so long, and they’re all having fun, and I’m lonely. I guess it’s funny. I can’t feel anything below my neck, but I can sure feel this ache in my heart, like a spear going right through me. Sometimes I wish that part of me was paralyzed too.
FORTY YEARS LATER
In my office, at Joni and Friends.
I knew better. I knew I wasn’t alone. Even then. I knew God was with me. Young as I was, I already had a history of witnessing God’s kindness and faithfulness in my life. And today, some four decades later, I’m as sure of His presence as I’m sure of the sky above and the earth below. I know the truth. I know the promises. And I can quote you chapter and verse.
God has said,
“Never will I leave you;
never will I forsake you.”
So we say with confidence,
“The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid.
What can man do to me?”
(Hebrews 13:5)
Then Jesus came to them and said, … “Surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” (Matthew 28:18, 20)
So do not fear, for I am with you;
do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you;
I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.
(Isaiah 41:10)
Words like these aren’t just sweet sentiments or pretty poetry, like something you’d see surrounded by glitter on a Christian greeting card. They are true. I know—and know that I know—because I have stood on them for years. I’ve clung to them in countless storms, like a strong rope when I felt myself slipping. God’s words to me have been refined in my heart through years of testing and trials, growing ever more precious.
The words of the LORD are flawless,
like silver refined in a furnace of clay,
purified seven times.
(Psalm 12:6)
Even so, in times of grief or loss, in the grip of great fear or physical pain, we can know all the promises of His presence and His care, and yet still feel the darkness, still feel alone.
Darkness in My Path …
A sixteenth-century friar known to history as Saint John of the Cross called it “the dark night of the soul.” He should know. Because of his efforts at reformation within the Carmelite order to which he belonged, he was publicly humiliated and flogged by his superiors, and then imprisoned for days on end in a cell barely larger than his body.
Looking back on some of these truly awful experiences, he wrote:“Spiritual persons suffer great trials from the fear of being lost on the road and that God has abandoned them. . . .”
Lost on the road.
Abandoned by God.
Maybe you’ve had one of those “dark night” experiences. Not long ago I found myself right in the middle of one. I had been in bed for over two months, suffering from searing, nonstop pain in my neck.
Friends were kind enough during that long ordeal, and my husband Ken was good enough to read the Bible by my bedside, but it was like listening through earplugs. Everything sounded muffled and distant. It was a time, as Job put it, “where even the light is like darkness” (10:22).
Eventually, visiting friends would take their leave, and my husband would close the Bible, kiss me, and say goodnight. With the lights out and the pain like a smoldering fire, I would lie there in the quiet, a darkness settling over me that was blacker than the mere absence of light.
In Job 19:8, it says, “He has blocked my way so I cannot pass; he has shrouded my path in darkness.” And then Jeremiah mourned in the book of Lamentations, “He has made me dwell in darkness”(3:6).
I’m not Job, I’m not Jeremiah, and I’m not John of the Cross … but I can empathize.
I have learned through the years that experiences like these are just part of the process of growing in the Lord Jesus. Difficulty, struggle, and feelings of loneliness are bound to be part of the hedge with which God has enclosed those who suffer—so we must learn not to be dismayed in the face of darkness.
When light seems to be denied us we find ourselves crying out with the writer of Psalm 77. Who knows what dark night of the soul had come upon Asaph, the author of this psalm. Was he being persecuted? Was he fighting a lingering illness that wracked his body with pain? Was he grieving over a wayward child or maybe the death of his wife of many years? Was he sick with worry over the future? Was he wrestling with demonic oppression? The Bible doesn’t tell us. But most of us, at one time or another in our lives, could have written the words he penned in the deep crisis of heart.
I cried out to God for help;
I cried out to God to hear me.
When I was in distress, I sought the Lord;
at night I stretched out untiring hands
and my soul refused to be comforted.
I remembered you, O God, and I groaned;
I mused, and my spirit grew faint.
You kept my eyes from closing;
I was too troubled to speak. . . .
Will the Lord reject forever?
Will he never show his favor again?
Has his unfailing love vanished forever?
Has his promise failed for all time?
Has God forgotten to be merciful?
(Psalm 77:1–4, 7–9)
When we find ourselves crying out, “Has God forgotten to be gracious? Has He forgotten His love for me?” the Bible has a remedy, a prescription, a medicine for melancholy—we are to remember and remember and remember again the way God worked in the past.
In the same psalm, perhaps brushing away his tears, Asaph put it this way:
I call to remembrance my song in the night;
I meditate within my heart…
I will remember the works of the LORD;
Surely I will remember Your wonders of old.
I will also meditate on all Your work,
And talk of Your deeds.
(Psalm 77:6, 11–12 NKJV)
You see, the psalmist realized that his darkness lay in his own infirmity, not in his God. The loneliness and sense of isolation would come over him like a cloud covering the moon on a starless night. And when it did, he would remember, he would meditate, and he would talk out loud of all God had done for him.
So that’s what I do.
That has been my practice when my pain and the darkness try to push me into a lonely corner. I talk of His deeds. Right out loud.
That’s what I did on those sleepless nights of neck pain. Mouthing the words quietly, so as not to awaken Ken, I whispered all the wonderful ways God had revealed Himself to me in days gone by.
God, You were with me at that youth camp so long ago, under the Virginia stars. I sat on that big flat rock and reached out to You and You were there.
Jesus, You were with me when I was facedown in that Stryker frame, fighting off those demons. You spoke to me through the pages of Your word right there on the hospital floor, as I turned the pages with a stick in my mouth.
You were with me in my loneliness and the ache of my loss on that camping trip, when my sisters scaled the mountain in the morning sunshine, leaving me alone in camp.
You were with me on that cold winter night in Wichita, when I was pitched face first out of my wheelchair onto the icy asphalt of the parking lot. It was You who enabled me to keep going when I wanted to quit, to fulfill my speaking engagement the very next night, and to declare Your love and faithfulness.
Praise You, Lord, You were with me when Ken Tada walked into my life, dark, handsome, and strong, with a twinkle in his eye and a smile that lit up a room.
You were with me at the orphanage on that dark afternoon in Bucharest, when I held the dying child in my arms and wheeled around and around that dreary room as the rain beat against the windows. I sang to him, that weak, frail little boy, and my heart was breaking. You sang, too, because he didn’t die after all. He was adopted by a family in California and has become a strong, healthy young man who knows You and loves You.
I remembered, and the memories came like a flood. The songs in the night … the tender mercies … the miracles … the still, small voice of the Holy Spirit … the giant baby steps of triumph my severely disabled friends have taken, doing their best, showing courage, leaning on Jesus … the sweet moments in beautiful places all over the world with family and loved ones … and Ken, my other half, my soul mate, my best friend.
I remembered how Jesus took up our infirmities and carried our diseases, how He understands and sympathizes with my weakness. And how He considers my frail frame and remembers that, after all, I’m only dust. I remembered, remembered, and remembered again.
Do Not Forget …
This discipline of remembering is so important to the Lord—and to us.
In the book of Exodus, the Israelites broke out into a spontaneous praise song to the Lord after He opened a path through the Red Sea. You can imagine their amazement when they saw the water parted like giant glass skyscrapers. Little wonder they sang on for twenty-one verses in music and melody.
I will sing to the LORD,
for he is highly exalted. . . .
The LORD is my strength and my song;
he has become my salvation.
He is my God, and I will praise him. . . .
(Exodus 15:1, 2)
But just a few verses later, their joy turned sour.
Their song gave out after three days traveling in the desert without finding water. They grumbled, saying, “What are we to drink?”The songs faded all too quickly when they ran into trouble. The irony is, they grumbled about water. Didn’t they remember God’s miracle with water? They’d just seen a whole sea of it!
And so it is with us. Our own songs of praise fade all too quickly when we forget how God protects and provides for us. We need to take the advice God gave the Israelites in Deuteronomy 4:9: “Only be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen.”
I challenge you to put this to the test. When you find yourself slipping into anxiety or depression, begin speaking aloud your praise and gratitude to God for specific instances of His grace in your life. Or if you are so inclined, make it a spontaneous song, like the Israelites sang on the other side of the Red Sea.
This isn’t the old, trite cliché of “count your blessings name them one by one.” This is an authentic, viable spiritual transaction between you and the God who listens and considers your every word.
Go back to that time when you were overwhelmed by your sin and shame and sought His forgiveness and restoration. Tell Him (out loud) how He freed you from your guilt and brought a sweet peace into your innermost being.
Tell Him (verbally) about the time when you were in danger and could easily have been injured or killed if God hadn’t stepped in to rescue you.
Recall with Him (in spoken words) that season of confusion and perplexity in your life, when you didn’t know whether to go forward, backward, or sideways. Tell Him you remember how He placed a firm but gentle hand on your shoulder, whispering in your ear, “This is the way, walk in it” (Isaiah 30:21).
Speak to Him about those days when you were so lonely that it felt like a physical pain gripping your heart. Remember with Him how His Spirit came alongside, whispering hope—or prompted one of your friends “out of the blue” to make a surprise phone call because they were “just thinking about you.”
Call these things to mind. You know very well they weren’t happenstance or coincidence. That was God at work in your life. Voice your gratitude aloud. It’s very, very powerful. In fact, remembering has been God’s remedy for His people through thousands of years.
Remember how the Lord your God led you all the way in the desert. . . . (Deuteronomy 8:2)
Remember that you were slaves … and the Lord your God redeemed you. . . . (Deuteronomy 24:18)
Remember the Lord, who is great and awesome, and fight for your brothers, your sons and your daughters, your wives and your homes. (Nehemiah 4:14)
On my bed I remember you;
I think of you through the watches of the night.
Because you are my help,
I sing in the shadow of your wings.
(Psalm 63:6–7)
I remember your ancient laws, O LORD,
and I find comfort in them.
(Psalm 119:52)
Remember the LORD in a distant land,
and think on Jerusalem.
(Jeremiah 51:50)
“Don’t you remember? When I broke the five loaves for the five thousand, how many basketfuls of pieces did you pick up?”(Mark 8:18–19)
Remember Jesus Christ, raised from the dead, descended from David. This is my gospel, for which I am suffering. (2 Timothy 2:8–9)
Remember those earlier days after you had received the light, when you stood your ground in a great contest in the face of suffering. (Hebrews 10:32)
Remember the height from which you have fallen! Repent and do the things you did at first. (Revelation 2:5)
Here is the ruby, hard-won. When nothing seems to be happening in the moment, when loneliness settles over your spirit like a lead apron, when pain and grief and anxiety conspire to push you to the edge of despair, remember God’s mighty deeds in your life. Remember His kindness, His special, tailor-made graces that fell out of the sky like a gentle spring rain.
A Presence in the Night
Sometimes in those mad, midnight moments when hope recedes, worries mount, and sleep refuses to come, I have to remind myself that God isn’t sleeping, either. He hasn’t caught a wink. He sits up with me all night. He hears me when no one else hears me, bending down to listen to my whisper. He knows every tear that falls from my eye, every thought that flits across my mind, every expression on my face in the darkness.
He is awake.
He who watches over you will not slumber;
indeed, he who watches over Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.
(Psalm 121:3–4)
Sometimes at night when I hear Ken stir in the bed, I will whisper, “Are you awake?” Maybe when we find ourselves wakeful in the wee hours of the morning, we should whisper that same question to God. “Are You awake? Do You want to talk?” The answer is yes and yes. He is certainly awake and alert, never groggy or drowsy, never disturbed by my call in the night, and always ready to talk to me and be a companion to me.
Three things happen to me all night long.
Three things happen to me when I feel the ache of loneliness.
The Father is awake and watches over me. He watches over my going out and coming in. He is behind me and before me and lays His hand over me.
The Spirit is awake and helps me in my weakness, praying prayers for me beyond what I could begin to conceive, and with groans that words cannot express. His very name, Counselor, means someone who comes alongside to help.
And Jesus … He is awake too. He is ever my Advocate, the Counsel for my defense, the One who faces down every lying tongue in hell, the One who speaks to the Father on my behalf, and who also prays for me.
Have you ever had anyone put a hand on your shoulder and pray for you—sincerely and earnestly intercede for you—perhaps with a broken voice and through tears? At different times in my travels around the world I have brought a prayer team with me—women who have a proven ministry in intercession. Time and time again these prayer warriors have placed their hands on me and prayed for me before critical meetings and in times of physical weakness and before speaking opportunities and television appearances. What a comfort that is, and what a bond that builds between people!
But even though my prayer team is only with me on certain occasions, the Bible says that both the Holy Spirit and Jesus, God’s Son, pray for me constantly, even in those moments when I am so deep in the darkness or crushed by loneliness that I can’t pray for myself.
Not all aloneness, of course, is loneliness.
We need to remember that too.
Strange as it may seem, there have been some days lately when I wanted to be away from everyone else, by myself, and alone with God. There are days when I’d like to rewrite the words of the old hymn “I Need Thee Every Hour.” With me, it’s more like every minute. Oh, the comfort of feeling desperate for Jesus!
I’m sure you’ve had days like that, in which you feel as though you must cling to Him every minute, every sixty seconds. That’s when I carve out time to be alone with Him. I don’t take phone-calls, I cancel my luncheon date, I turn off my cell phone, and I close the office door just to be with God.
You can transact life-shaping business with God when you’re alone with Him. Look at the record:
Jacob was alone when he crossed the Jabbok and spent the night wrestling with the Angel of the Lord.
Moses was alone when the Lord revealed Himself through the burning bush, giving an old man a fresh vision for life and a great work to accomplish.
Joshua was alone when he met a warrior angel prior to the attack on Jericho.
Manoah’s wife was alone in the field when the angel of the Lord appeared to her and gave her news about the baby she was to bear—a boy named Samson.
Isaiah was alone when he received his commission from the Lord, saw the Lord high and lifted up, and tasted the burning coals of holiness on his tongue.
Elisha was alone when the mantle of the prophet fell across his shoulders.
Paul was alone in the Arabian desert when the Lord gave him personal instructions about preaching the Word.
Mary was alone when the angel brought her the message that she would give birth to the Savior.
John was alone—exiled—on the island of Patmos when he received his matchless revelation of things to come.
If you need a word from the Lord—direction, help, hope—set aside time to be alone with Him. Expect Him to speak to you. Guidance and real fellowship only come in those times of solitude, in an hour when you say to the Lord, “I need You.”
We Must Do the Work …
Sometimes we can feel lonely in our responsibilities and duties. Ever feel like you’re the only one holding it all together? Nobody seems to be worried about the things that worry you. If you didn’t make that call or write that note, who would?
Did it ever occur to you that you have somebody on your side who’s taking more than His fair share of the load? In the ninth chapter of the gospel of John, Jesus was conversing with His disciples—and with a man who had been blind from birth. The disciples opened the dialogue with a question:
“Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”
“Neither this man nor his parents sinned,” said Jesus, “but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life.” (John 9:2–3)
And then Jesus said a very curious thing.
“As long as it is day, we must do the work of him who sent me. Night is coming, when no one can work.” (John 9:4)
Who was Jesus talking to? I can’t be sure … but I have a strong feeling He was looking directly at that disabled man. “We … we must do the work of Him who sent Me.”
I choose to think that in that moment, Jesus was reminding the blind man that he was not alone. He was not alone in his disability, and he was not alone in his despair. In fact, the mighty works of God were about to be displayed through him and through his life. The Lord wanted this man to know that God Himself was standing by his side, taking on more than His fair share of the load.
Jesus went on to actually heal the man, of course, but I think the Lord’s words alone must have thrilled him beyond telling. Jesus was siding with him, choosing him, saying, “We, my friend, must do the works of God. Together.”
It awes me to think that Jesus wants to help me to help Him accomplish God’s desires for this world. I’m not alone in it. I’m not leading a one-woman parade. I don’t have to weaken under the pressure. It doesn’t all fall on my sagging shoulders.
Christ stands with me—just as He stood with the blind man that day. And He’s standing with you today too. Especially if you feel as though you’re desperately holding together all the loose ends. Be comforted; it won’t all fall apart without you. Jesus is saying to you, “We—we must do the works of God.”
How can I be lonely in my work when Jesus has rolled up His sleeves to help me and partner with me?
If isolation and loneliness is not your lot in this season of life, ask God to reveal someone in your neighborhood or church to whom you can show His love, compassion, support, and friendship. Find a person who is wounded and hurting, and be to that man, be to that woman, be to that child the hands, heart, and smile of Christ Himself.
It may be a time in their lives they will treasure into eternity.