Knowing Fully even as I am Fully Known

“We see as if we are looking into a blurry mirror.  But soon we will see everything.  Now I know only a part.  But soon I will know everything in a perfect way.  That is how God knows me right now.” 
— 1 Corinthians 13:12 (NLV modified)  

Soon we will see ourselves as God sees us.  We cannot even begin to comprehend how God sees us right now.  If we could comprehend it, we would heal immediately.  If we could see as God sees, there would be no enmity, nor striving, nor strife.  

But in the meantime we need faith to endeavour our way to such sight as to imagine how God loves us, as impetus for us to love others with His love, and to embrace His perfect love amid truth to receive His healing.  

If we could see clearly now we would see right through to the soul of others, ourselves, every situation; our sight graced with perfect understanding.  

God knows us with the love
we will soon have
when we join His Presence.  

In the meantime, we are invited into the humble acceptance that our love is imperfect, just as we’re invited into the wonder of knowing we are capable of dreaming our way to glimpses of love made real, and doing it!  

What a wonderful thing the horizon is.  We have an earthly image of what the perfection of eternity is.  It is ever out of our reach but promises to blow our minds.  

Brokenness is an image of the imperfection
we are called to bear in this life.  

Such is the paradox: maturity is accepting our frailties, our fallenness, our failures, our fragilities.  

The better we bear our imperfection, the more we receive the moment’s forgiveness, the sweeter our ride through this life.  

The more mercy we receive,
the more mercy we extend to others.  

We cannot see as God sees, yet.  But we can imagine just how God sees as we survey His Word.  We are granted glimpses of the glory of God in nature, in creation, and in accepting the cosmic chasm between the Almighty and us.  

There is an important reason that we are here, imperfect, frail, fallen, fragile.  What is on the yonder horizon is a means of hope, and only hope will get us through by faith to what we strive for — to know fully and to love fully even as we are fully known and fully loved.  

We need the hope of eternity on the horizon, an image of the perfection all our lives we strive for but cannot ever attain.  This hope of eternity has been set in the hearts of us all, and nothing can dissuade it.  

When a Routine Ultrasound Makes Ultrasounds Routine No More

INNOCENT it was, a quiet, sunny, winter’s morning, July First.  A Tuesday.  Over 11 years ago now.  A day our lives would change.

We thought nothing of it really.  Apart from the fact we were going to ‘meet’ our unborn, and see their little 19-week-old body in utero, in the form of pictures, some in a printed form we could take with us.  We would see him or her move.  Little did we realise at this point we were about to see our baby from this view many more times in the intervening months, many more times than a normal couple might see, and get to know, their unborn baby.

We readied ourselves and set off in the car; us and our then 15-month-old son.  A quiet car trip, planning the day out as we went.  The strange thing as I look back, those plans soon withered into annihilation.  Those plans were very soon forgotten.  I have no memory of them.

When life changes in an instant, the present bequeaths to the incoming moments a state that can neither accommodate the past nor plan for the future.

We found our way to this brand-new clinic, within a pristine new hospital complex, where the ultrasound scan would take place.  There were still many workers around finishing the place off.  We arrived, registered that we were there, found a seat and some toys for our son to play with.  I can still picture where we sat and the types of interactions we had with fellow parents-to-be.  It was a beautiful moment, pregnant with possibility.  We really had no idea what was about to hit us.

Being invited in for the scan itself, we were impressed with how well behaved our young son was.  But, for some reason, the sonographer was taking such a long time to sort herself out.  It seemed to take her longer to get the views she needed to do our scan.  When she couldn’t see the heart at the right angle, she invited us to go and grab a coffee and return in thirty minutes.  At that point I was impressed with myself that I was able to pick out our foetus’ kidneys (which were remarkably prominent in the scan — little did I know that was not a good sign).  Suspecting nothing was amiss we did as was suggested, and so we went for some morning tea.

I had to shift the car because the ticket had run out, so my wife took my son up to the ultrasound scanning rooms and I followed them minutes later.  Upon arriving I sat in the same seat in the waiting room as I had beforehand.

Then, a minute later, there was a glimpse of Sarah — something wasn’t right.

She gestured to come into the room.

Sarah took up her position on the chair and the sonographer came into the room with a gentleman in his fifties — one of the chief consultants.  They reran the scan, talking a different language briefly, before they asked Sarah to get dressed.  We were then ushered into the consultant’s office.  He was very nice.  Being too nice.

Something was wrong, but we really still had no idea how wrong things were.

There wasn’t that much said, but this consultant felt like Dr. Phil.

He gave us the medical prognosis first, very matter-of-factly, then the plan for what next — how ‘treatment’ would change.  Then he said words etched into our memory:

“You’ve got to be strong for each other… 

[his eyes welling up with tears at this stage] … 

there’s a very long road ahead.”

In the disbelief of shock, yet knowing this is real, I said something without thought: “I suspect we’ll be thanking God for our faith.”  The doctor then said, “I thank God for your faith now…!  Thank you so much for making this easy for me.”  He then respectfully ushered us out of the rooms, a place I now felt as if we no longer belonged or were worthy of — a place of life, where we were now agents for death.  In a very short timeframe our understanding of where we were and what we were doing was obliterated.

From that moment, everything changed.  The drive home.  Being home.  Having family there.  ‘Words of comfort’ fell flat, and some well-meaning people infuriated us, even when they said innocuous things.  Vulnerable in a second.  We were in the throes of such an ambiguous grief, and those days grew into weeks, and only through the months did grief morph into something pliable for use; for me, lament in reflection and the simple resolve to keep going.  Sarah was always pragmatic, except for the sudden moments she’d be thrown; every few days or so, in her own private way.  Our faith did help, and heaven knows, your prayers helped enormously.

This article was originally written in 2015 but has been adapted for today.

Spiritual Gains in the Losses of Loved Ones

Musing with a friend recently about growth over the lifespan, I was given to think of something I’ve always said in terms of loss — when we lost Nathanael, I always felt I gained something from him.  We lost him in 2014.  Then when I lost my mother in 2022, I had the same feeling; I felt she had given me something.  

From a macro viewpoint as I look over my life from the life-changing point in 2003 to now, 2022 onward has been a sustained period of something vastly different than the previous 19-year period.  

I was probably coming into something of a renaissance before Mum died, and apart from grieving her death, I was given something special as a compensation.  Mum and I had talked many times about life after her death, and I had recited her favourite Psalm 23 many times with her.  Mum was at peace with her death as anyone could be.  

Retaining continued bonds with those loved ones we lose is crucial.  And I think this idea is an extension of that idea: that our loved ones add something to us in leaving us.  It doesn’t need to be quantified ‘what’ that is.  I rationalise it as a spiritual gift.  

What if that were true?  What if it was that those who leave us in the physical world as they depart over the cusp into eternity gave us something — an intangible positive something.  What if we felt that?  Adds to our joy and gratitude, and certainly gives us peace.  

What was added to me from Nathanael and Mum may have been re-doubled by them both.  Mum lost my sister Debbie to stillbirth in 1973 and grieved her hard for decades.  When we lost Nathanael, I saw something heal in Mum.  She always believed she would re-connect with both Debbie and Nathanael in heaven.  

It has helped me accept that I no longer have Nathanael and Mum to know that they have both given me something.  It may be that it is God that has given me something to compensate for these losses.  The main thing to understand is this is something either to be believed or not.  Believe and we prosper in gratitude, refuse to believe and we receive no peace.