Day 21 - July 6 - Wrestling in the Dark

Most often, it's during the day. Three hours difference between California and Michigan doesn't make it easier. As a result, sometimes it's during the night. It doesn't matter - he knows he can call me anytime.

Maybe it's 1:30 in the morning when the phone rings. I flounder a moment, trying to orient myself, and fumble for the phone. The caller ID tells me it's Eric. I sit up in bed, steeling myself, braced for the worst of bad news. "God, give me strength. Help me be strong", I pray silently as I push the talk button.

"Hey, bro...", as I stumble down the hall.

"Hey", he replies.

"What's up?"

He tells me. And I listen. I hear the catch in his voice, the cautious words you use when you are trying not to break down, when the very things you say might be enough to push you over the edge into tears, or worse. The anguish of a father's voice, who's hands are helpless to make things better for his son. The voice of one holding fast against an overwhelming storm, one who knows it may very well get worse, who realizes that all might very well be lost.

For a moment, I sense the anguish of God; how He must have felt, as His Son was led to the cross.

I listen. What do you say? What can you say? I fear being counted among Job's friends, whose mindless blatherings were of no comfort and no help. I can't pretend to have much to offer here, but he needs to hear a voice, and so I talk.

I talk about faith, and courage, and God, and hope, and reality, and many other things in between. We fight lies with truth. Sometimes we weep, and sometimes we laugh. Sometimes I find a metaphor in my past life in submarines, sometimes I'm reminded to quote Scripture. And as we talk, I become aware that these words are not my words, but words prepared for me to speak. God has prepared what must be said, because I certainly wouldn't have thought to say it that way, or even at all. Certainly not in a way that could make sense to a grieving father.

Together, we face the night. Together, we wrestle through issues that most folk would rather avoid. Sometimes the call is short, and sometimes we are unaware of the passage of time. Sometimes the words seem as sharp as a slap, or a bucket of ice water in the face. But as we realize the call is winding to a close, it usually ends with Eric's words.

"Thanks, bro, I needed to hear that."

"OK, we'll talk in the morning then", I reply.

"Love you."

"Love you too...hold fast."

Then the line goes dead.

I put the phone back in the cradle, and sit there in the dark. Slowly the sounds of the night return to the surface of my awareness. Trucks whining on the distant interstate. The shuffle of some nocturnal scavenger in the grass outside my window. A cricket minuet.

Somewhere in my mind or heart, God tickles something into existence.

"Who do you think those words were for? You think those words are just for Eric?

"You spoke those words to Eric, but I was talking to you."

I am humbled. God teaches me, even as He works healing in Eric. Even as we wrestle in the dark.