There are moments when sorrow doesn’t speak in grand declarations but in the quiet choreography of love - an arm reaching for a brother, a couch becoming a sanctuary. This post moved me deeply - teared me up, actually - not only for its raw tenderness, but for how it embodies the mystery I often reflect on in Desert and Fire: that Christ is not only found in the heights, but in the hidden - in the weight of a medical device pushed aside to make space for presence.
What you’ve described here is not abstract empathy. It is incarnational love. The kind that does not look away from limitation, but sits beside it. That does not demand healing as proof of grace, but recognizes that sometimes the miracle is simply remaining, and remaining tender. Evie’s reaching, Calvin’s quiet perseverance - these are sacraments in their own right. They speak of a God who became not just man, but burdened man, and who remains with us still, not above the sorrow, but within it.
Thank you for this holy glimpse. It's a good reminder that the spiritual life is not flight from the body or the ache, but surrender within it. And somehow - impossibly - Christ is there, exchanging our unbearable weights for His hidden strength.
Thank you Kara! This upcoming Resurrection day reminds me that one glorious day, when our sons' names are called they will, "...run out of that grave!" to quote Kristian Stanfill's song, "Glorious Day". The pictures you posted are powerful. Reminds me of our oldest daughter with our son. Thank you for the true hope you proclaim!
Kara, my heart leaps a little when I see you in my inbox. Thank you for these beautiful reminders.
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Honored to have you reading along, Candice.
There are moments when sorrow doesn’t speak in grand declarations but in the quiet choreography of love - an arm reaching for a brother, a couch becoming a sanctuary. This post moved me deeply - teared me up, actually - not only for its raw tenderness, but for how it embodies the mystery I often reflect on in Desert and Fire: that Christ is not only found in the heights, but in the hidden - in the weight of a medical device pushed aside to make space for presence.
What you’ve described here is not abstract empathy. It is incarnational love. The kind that does not look away from limitation, but sits beside it. That does not demand healing as proof of grace, but recognizes that sometimes the miracle is simply remaining, and remaining tender. Evie’s reaching, Calvin’s quiet perseverance - these are sacraments in their own right. They speak of a God who became not just man, but burdened man, and who remains with us still, not above the sorrow, but within it.
Thank you for this holy glimpse. It's a good reminder that the spiritual life is not flight from the body or the ache, but surrender within it. And somehow - impossibly - Christ is there, exchanging our unbearable weights for His hidden strength.
Thank you Kara! This upcoming Resurrection day reminds me that one glorious day, when our sons' names are called they will, "...run out of that grave!" to quote Kristian Stanfill's song, "Glorious Day". The pictures you posted are powerful. Reminds me of our oldest daughter with our son. Thank you for the true hope you proclaim!
So glad this resonated with your family's experience, Laura. Resurrection hope.
I love your thought here and always. Throw! Throw your burdens! Yes, please! Let’s do.
Thank you, Denise.