The Desperate Father, and Me

More than two thousand years ago, a man approached the base of a mountain. I don’t know what he looked like, but I can imagine -- sweating, a tightness in his eyes, sun-weathered face, dirt on his heels. A tension about him, an urgency. And maybe -- I can’t tell you for sure, but maybe -- every step he took he struggled with the boy in his arms. His reason for approaching the mountain. His only son.

I’d like to think that perhaps, at his side, there came a woman, the mother of the child. Perhaps the burden was just as visibly part of her as it was with this father. Perhaps she watched, constantly worried, as the nights grew cold, as they journeyed toward their last chance.

Presumably, they had suffered alongside this child for years. Every day it was a different trial -- sometimes, he fell into fire, sometimes into water, and always these parents had to be vigilant so that they could save their precious son from himself.

It’s hard for me to imagine how they must have been feeling; what it was like to be uncertain that they would ever live normally, or at least peacefully. I wonder if they ever spoke, during the rare hours of the night when the boy was asleep, their voices hushed, the desperation plain in their faces. I wonder if they held each other and cried and prayed for some relief. The unpredictability of their future must have been terrifying, sharpened only by grief for the life of their child, whom, unless some miracle happened, would never live a normal life, and might never even get the chance to grow up.

And so, when they heard the stories -- five thousand fed, a dead man brought back to life, a woman healed of a twelve-year illness, and always and especially the casting out of demons -- it could have been that they heard more than just the awe in the voices of the tellers. They heard an unbelievable thing, something that through all their long nights it's possible they weren’t sure would ever come again: hope.

Maybe that was what brought them to the mountain -- something not quite refined into faith, maybe not even as substantial yet as belief. But it was all they had, so there they were.

After the failed blessing, it surely must have been difficult to continue to hope. Perhaps the man and his wife were turning from the bickering apostles to make their desolate way back to their home, wondering now what they could possibly do for their son.

But then perhaps, a voice from behind them called out to them like He had called out to so many; with an invitation to come unto Him, to let Him see.

I cannot help but wonder what it must have been like to look into His eyes. I wonder if the little family in my mind could feel how much of them He did see, how perfectly He understood their needs. I personally don't believe that, in their heartbroken state, it would have been possible not to feel the spirit that must have radiated from Him. I wonder if they could instantly tell that something was special about Him, and I wonder if their hearts leapt in their chests and longed to be near Him.

And then, the child convulsed, throwing himself from the father's arms, “wallowing,” as the scripture puts it. In explaining their plight the father does not just plead for his boy. “If thou canst do anything, have compassion on us,” he begs. “Help us.” Whether or not the wife was present, the father begged on her behalf as well as his own. The exhaustion in his expression is palpable even thousands of years later, as well as the uncertainty. It's probable that this man had never seen Jesus heal. It's almost a challenge posed to Jesus, echoing that of a far more sinister voice that followed Him into a desert and taunted Him with “ifs”: “if thou be the son of God”. A mortal man could resent this father for his challenge of His power.

And still, He watched them with His penetrating eyes. Then, He told them, “if thou canst believe, all things are possible to him that believeth.”

“Lord, I believe,” shoots back the father. “Help thou mine unbelief.” Somewhere between his “if” statement and this declaration, the father may have made a decision. Maybe it was the feeling of being in the presence of Jesus that influenced him to profess belief in him, but whatever it was, this desperate father decided that the stories he'd heard could be true and that here was the man who could heal his son.

And Jesus in His wisdom healed the boy that day, but I think we often overlook in the face of that beautiful miracle the one that might possibly be more astounding. That is that the father in the story, whose initial belief was limited, summoned through proximity to the Savior the faith necessary to seek out and receive a miracle in His own life. In a single moment, this man went from hopeless to believing enough in Jesus to allow the power of heaven to come into his life. Father and son were healed that day, but the father was healed of a more spiritual wound, one that only Jesus could see and one that He alone could touch.

This is an aspect of the Savior's personality that I hadn't thought about much before but is incredibly important to me. So often I come to the Savior as this father did: broken, spiritually exhausted, with no other hope left but the hope (which may not have even condensed into faith yet) that Jesus can heal me where I am hurting. 

The amazing thing is that the act of coming to the Savior, even if in desperation, puts you in close enough proximity to Him to remember who He is. Christ doesn't just magically heal us from our spiritual wounds through His incredible power, although He certainly can and that's certainly an incredible blessing. He also teaches us who He is. He helps us remember to seek Him first. He can strengthen our faith to the point where we understand how to draw His healing power into our lives. He supplements the faith that we lack and enables us to access His grace.

I guess what I'm getting at with all of this is that sometimes, I feel like people are ashamed to admit their limitations when it comes to their own faith. We don't like to admit that maybe sometimes, we don't believe all the things we've gained a testimony of over the years, at least not to the extent we wish we did. It feels like a betrayal of our Savior to say that there are things we aren't sure of.

I mean, we're constantly told that all things are possible through Christ. Jesus told the desperate father that very thing. That's 100% true, and intellectually, I know that. But for me, it's incredibly hard to feel that way all the time. I wish I could, but there are moments when my faith is a friggin’ Fourth-of-July bonfire, and then there are times when it's more like the birthday candles on the cake -- a breath away from going out. I sometimes don't even really fully believe -- I just want to believe.

I've come to realize that this is normal. It's normal to go through seasons where your faith is not up to your personal par. And in those seasons, it's important to keep living as though you're in a bonfire-faith-moment. Cling to past experiences and miracles and lean on the faith of others who love you. Study your scriptures, pray without ceasing and do it with full honesty, and never abandon Him. Be like the father of the boy in Mark 9. Seek Jesus even if you're not entirely convinced it'll do anything for you.

The good news, friends, is that Jesus can heal you, not just physically like the son, but spiritually, like the father. He can help in so many ways, but He can also help when your faith in Him is not enough to provide the miracle you need. He can “help our unbelief”, so to speak, so that even with diminished faith He can help us become equal to the tasks and trials set before us. His grace not only makes it possible for us to be forgiven of sins and healed from sicknesses, but it also covers our own lack of faith, our own doubt and uncertainty, and it makes all that we can give in that regard enough for the miracles we seek.

The outcome of any given situation is still entirely unknown. I would know. I'll get a little personal with you and let you know that this past two months have been a straight roller coaster of emotions. There are situations I've tried to make right, and people I've tried to make up to, and things I've wanted to work out that just haven't, and it's been a legitimate struggle to believe that God loves me when it seems like all these things I cared so deeply about aren't happening just the way I planned. The things that I have faith in have come down to a very short list. I no longer believe that God must answer every prayer exactly as I entreat Him to. Nor do I believe that it is my job to dictate instructions to Him on what I need or deserve. I don't get to inform God on His obligations to me or any of His other children.  

I don't know my future. I don't know what's coming. But what I hope is that one day, everything will make sense. I hope for better days ahead, and a time when I will trust in God more than I do now. What I believe is this: it will be better for me to follow God's plan for me. I don't always know exactly what that is, but I believe He will give me the answers I need when I need them. I believe that He knows my heart, and I believe He sees how hard I try.

And here's what I know: whatever does happen to me, whatever path I choose to take, and no matter what I feel, I'm a daughter of God. I know that even when I feel distant from Him, He is with me, and He loves me. That's all that I know. And that is enough for now. 

I look forward with joyful anticipation to the day when, through Jesus Christ, my belief strengthens to knowledge. The future is bright and paved with the promises of God, and I cannot wait to see how the road looks when I get to the end.

I believe it'll be more beautiful than I ever imagined.