Three years ago I became disabled by illness. I don’t know whether it was lupus or not; the illness was never diagnosed. But it was a doozy of a flare-up and I was off work for about six months. During that time, I was virtually house-bound, going out only for medical appointments. I had to be transported to each appointment by friends and loved ones and helped to and from the car.
It was a devastating experience. Beyond the fact that I was repeatedly in and out of hospitals and doctor’s rooms without answers, and beyond the fact that I could barely talk let alone go anywhere, I was terrified that it would be forever. Illness had surrounded me like a raging inferno, and all I could see was the flames.
‘Goodbye, job,’ I said. ‘I’m going to be medically retired in my early forties.’
Thankfully, that was not to be the case. But I didn’t know that at the time. As my world shrank, it became dark and fiery and terrifying. Then, in the middle of that dark and terrifying place, the worst happened.
God stopped speaking to me.
I thought I had done something wrong. I thought maybe I wasn’t listening hard enough. So I prayed about the illness. I prayed for answers, for clarity, for wisdom for the doctors, and for fortitude to see the illness through. I prayed and prayed for months.
Nothing. Not a word from God.
My words reached saturation point. I was sick of rehashing the same prayers and worries over and over. I had picked the thing to death. The bone was clean. Given I was only getting silence in return, I gave up—not on God per se, but on prayer. I stopped talking.
I noticed an interesting thing when I did so. God sat beside me. He said nothing but he was there, and we sat in silence together. I felt vaguely irritated with him. I wished he would speak and give me the answers I was seeking. But I could not deny that he was with me—present, attentive, caring.
I could not deny that he was with me—present, attentive, caring.
I came to recognise that as grace. And that grace, his nearness and presence, held me. I was alone in my suffering, but his grace held me. I couldn’t walk far, and I could hardly talk, but his grace held me. I had run out of words and hope—and yet, grace held me.
I really did run out of hope during that period, my optimism eroded like my joints. One day a friend asked how I was, and I said I was still sick. ‘There’s always hope, though,’ she remarked. I looked dead into her eyes. ‘Not for me. Not anymore.’ That’s chronic illness for you. It can drain your resilience until that well is dry.
Yet, even in that space, grace held me. That’s what I’m holding on to today. Not my capacity to work, even though I am currently capable of working. Not my energy, even though I do have a little energy today. Not my mental health, even though my mental health is robust at present. None of these things hold me. Grace, and grace alone, holds me in the flames. And his grace is enough.
My prayer for you is that grace will hold you—in wellness and flares, on good days and terrible ones, in disability and helplessness and fear, in loss of work and the future, in hospitalisations and horrific medical appointments, in words and silence, in hope and giving up. Let grace hold you.
Have you experienced God’s grace during times of illness or suffering? What was that like for you—comforting, relieving, irritating? Do you need God’s grace to hold you today? Share your story. Let’s have a countercultural conversation.