No Shortcuts

For much of the last year or so my family and I have had to deal with a serious health issue. Early last winter my wife began struggling with a major depression and while there has been major improvement since then there are still ups and downs. Some ups and downs are bigger than others, but the fact remains that this health issue has, in some sense, defined us as a family. I suppose it's not unlike a family dealing with any serious illness or chronic disease, one that seems to persist or lasts a long period of time. That, of course, doesn't necessarily make it any easier.

I can't completely identify with my wife's situation. I can't completely understand how she feels when she's at her worst moments of depression. I can only be there for her. And even then there have been times when I felt absolutely powerless, able only to offer my presence, weak and fragile though that may seem.

So though I can't speak for her, I can speak for myself, and perhaps for others who live with loved ones dealing with ongoing health issues that are serious and seemingly endless. Being the primary caregiver in such a situation carries with it its own kind of weight and difficulties. Saying so isn't revealing some secret unbeknownst to those cared for. My wife knows full well how her health adds an extra layer of pressure and stress. That said, as someone who has the role of caregiver, I deliberately seek not to dump my feelings and frustrations that result from this role on her lap.

There have been a number of moments, especially when her depression was at its worst, when all I could do was hold her and plead with God to make her better. And I have pleaded. I have begged. I am not proud when it comes to knocking on heaven's door on behalf of my family--my wife or my little girl. Our tears and cries have formed supplications that have stretched the distance between heaven and earth. I can't tell you how many times I have prayed simply for God to heal my wife, to take away this depression completely, to restore to her the joy of her salvation and the simple joy of life itself. And yet her depression, though not presently at its worst, still persists. Why? Why hasn't God done what I've asked?

I don't know that I have an answer. Though it seems to me that prayers for physical healing often go unanswered, at least as far as we're concerned. Someone from our church has cancer. We pray and we pray and we pray. But still there is no physical healing. Is it that we don't pray hard enough, with enough faith, long enough, boldly enough? Is it that we pray but still reserve the right to doubt not if but whether God will heal? Is it that we are so shaped and defined by a worldview that eliminates the possibility of miracle that, try though we may, we just can't bring ourselves to believe that even the most ardent prayers will result in healing?

In dealing with being a caregiver, I think I have part of an answer. I've already said that in being a caregiver there are frustrations and difficulties involved. Sometimes that's an understatement. Sometimes I have found myself feeling as though I was at the end of my rope, unable to give anymore, unable to muster any more kindness, patience, or practical expressions of love. I just want the situation to go away, not just for my wife's sake but for my own. Whatever anyone else may say about me, there are times when I am hardly a selfless caregiver, someone whose heart overflows with unending support for my beloved. Instead, I give, but begrudgingly; I support, but hard-heartedly; and I love, but almost unwillingly.

Why do I share all of this? I do so because any prayers I utter for my wife's healing can be as much shaped by my own response to her as they can be by her actual condition. And when my response to her or the situation, expressed or not, is one of frustration and impatience, then my prayers are not without a layer of selfishness. In other words, I pray, "God, heal my wife so I won't have to deal with this anymore!" Such a prayer may be honest, but it's not necessarily good.

Having been put in the position of caregiver means learning to love in difficult terrain. This is not a straight, smooth highway absent of detours, potholes, and unexpected turns. Love comes easy when all is well; but love is proven mature only when things fall to pieces. Not that our life as a family has fallen to pieces; no, but there are cracks in the wood and chips in the paint.

Asking God to completely heal my wife may sometimes be noble, but often the nobility of such a request is tainted by less than noble motives. I want to skip over the difficult times. Or I want to fast forward through a rough patch. But ironic though it is, God's goodness usually doesn't permit this. Strangely, God's goodness often consists in letting us go through such periods. There is no guarantee of daily happiness attached as small print to our gift of salvation in Christ. We are not promised lives free of wear and tear. Yet my prayers often betray a desire for precisely this. Is it possible that this is why such prayers are sometimes left unanswered? Is this why God so often says no?

There are no shortcuts to growing in Christ, to growing the fruit of the Spirit in our lives. And most of the time such growth requires that we weather storms and sunny skies. You can't grow anything without rain and sun. To ask that God would help us sidestep the gales of life is to ask that we be given a shortcut to maturity and wholeness. There is no better environment to learn to love than one where love is extracted from the giver only with sacrifice and even pain. There is no better environment to learn to love my wife than one where love is drawn from me only at the expense of myself. If love is the price, we are the currency, and we are asked, in love, to spend it all. There is no way that can ever be easy.

Do I still pray for healing? Do I still ask God to remove my wife's depression? I do. I most certainly do. Do I expect him to do so? Do I think that one day she will wake up and feel completely healed, having been freed from her present bondage? I have no idea. I've decided, as much as possible, to leave that in God's hands. I don't know what his will is there. For all I know she could get up tomorrow and, thanks to God, leave depression behind like a distant and faint memory. Or for all I know this will be something we will have to deal with for the long-term, to greater and lesser degrees.

What I do know for sure is that my own prayers for her healing are themselves imperfect, reminders of my own self-centeredness even as I care for her. So while I continue to pray for healing, I also pray that in the meantime I will love as I should: patiently, kindly, generously, without complaining or grumbling. Perhaps such prayers result in their own kind of healing, a healing of wounds that my sin has inflicted. What I hope is that such prayers may change me so that as I do continue to pray for her healing, I do so more for her than for myself. And there are no shortcuts to reach that destination.