The Story that’s Writing Itself

“Wait!” she said as she ran towards us. She told us how God had put a spot light on our son during the meeting and prompted her to pray for him. I hesitated, I didn’t know her and I did not want to expose Adrian to strangers who would approach him for different reasons. She shook her head and explained: “I go to a house fellowship back home where I live. I would like for our group to pray for him from now on, if that’s ok.” Sure, that would be wonderful. I gave her my email address and we agreed to stay in touch.

Later on I checked my email but I didn’t receive anything from her. That was OK, I knew from experience how good intentions would shrivel and die when faced with schedules and chores.

Six months later I was deleting trash mail when a less suspiciously looking email caught my attention. There is was, a lovely letter from Tone, written the very same day of our conversation, where she told me briefly about herself and her group. I wrote her an email, explaining the situation and apologizing profusely. She immediately replied, kindly stating that my lack of response didn’t matter at all. “God told me to pray for Adrian,” she said, “so that’s what I’ve done. We’ve been praying for him ever since you and I met.”

I was moved beyond words by her commitment and faithfulness. She closed her letter saying that that the next time we were visiting the hospital of her hometown she would love for us to come by and visit her family. I thanked her and said that we would be honored to meet them. I meant it. And I forgot.

Living with a sick child is at times all-consuming. This extreme way of life forces you to make harsh priorities, and if you refuse to consciously do so, your body will do it for you. I would remember the results of all the tests and blood samples Adrian had ever taken, but I was unable to remember names or appointments, let alone hypothetical future encounters. Once I went to a school reunion. There they were, all my class mates from 9 years of school. I didn’t remember a single name, nor did I recognize anyone. It may seem more like a curse than a blessing, but it was actually a gift. My mind allowed me to block out less significant information to focus on remembering the things that would contribute to keeping my child alive.

I was packing the equipment needed to go to a hospital in another Norwegian city when it hit me: That’s where Tone lived! I was rather embarrassed when I sat down to write her another email, saying that we would be in her hometown the next day. Of course, we didn’t expect them to be able to see us on such short notice. I didn’t hear anything from her, nor did I expect to. I was embarrassed for not having honored her invitation and written her earlier, but it had completely escaped my foggy state-of-emergency brain.

After the initial doctor’s appointment at the hospital we had some time off and we decided to go for a walk. Suddenly we heard a voice calling our names. It was Tone. She was smiling and waving as she ran toward us. She had seen my email but hadn’t had time to respond to it yet, and then she just happened to run into us on the street. Staying at hospitals far away from home was lonely and boring, and we happily accepted her dinner invitation.

We were complete strangers, but they welcomed us into their family. Within hours we could sense these golden threads of a beautiful friendship weaving our lives together. It was a holy communion.

As we were all sharing life and pasta, I suddenly froze and I could feel myself being transported back to the old Lutheran church where I grew up. I was still present at the table, but at the same time, I was sitting on the hard pew of the wooden church on a cold February night of 1985. I heard the voice of a traveling evangelist as he urged people to come forward. I was crying, not really knowing why I moved toward the altar, but sensing that I had to go. I had been a Christian and loved Jesus all my life. Still, I knew that something was awaiting me there at the foot of the altar.

I went home from that night with such a hunger for the Word of God. As a 13-year-old I read the Bible from cover to cover in a year. I skipped homework and forgot sport activities because I couldn’t stop reading the Bible. I didn’t remember a single word of what the preacher had said, but I knew that he had released a passionate love for the Word in me. His longing and uncompromising hunger for more of God stayed with me.

As Tone shared a childhood memory I realized that the evangelist who had breathed fire into my veins was her grandfather. It shook me to my core and I was overwhelmed by how this family had blessed us through generations. For a brief moment I was completely still, imagining how God had orchestrated these divine encounters, weaving us together through generations. Amazing grace!

I left Tone’s house with a new prayer, a new longing: “God, make my life significant for your Kingdom! Be glorified through me and my family! Let people see you through us.”

I want to leave a lasting imprint of the Father’s love in someone’s life. Sounds ambitious? Well, I really can’t see any reason why his love through me should not last through generations. I may be limited and bound by time, but he’s not! His word never returns void, and his love is everlasting.

So, my prayer is this:

Expand my capacity to love.
Unconditionally.
Unrestrainedly.
Fiercely.
Absolutely.

You see, I am so loved. My Father loves me so much. I’d like to pass on some.

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