He Draws Near: Abigail’s Experience

“While He was still speaking, there came from the ruler’s house some who said, “Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the Teacher any further?” But overhearing what they said, Jesus said to the ruler of the synagogue, “Do not fear, only believe.” And He allowed no one to follow Him except Peter and James and John the brother of James. They came to the house of the ruler of the synagogue, and Jesus saw a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. And when He had entered, He said to them, “Why are you making a commotion and weeping? The child is not dead but sleeping.” And they laughed at Him. But He put them all outside and took the child’s father and mother and those who were with Him and went in where the child was. Taking her by the hand He said to her, “Talitha cumi,” which means, “Little girl, I say to you, arise.” And immediately the girl got up and began walking (for she was twelve years of age), and they were immediately overcome with amazement.”
Mark 5:35-42

When I was pregnant with our second daughter, who was given a terminal diagnosis of Trisomy-18 at 20-weeks gestation, we clung to this story in Mark’s gospel. Nightly we went to the Lord in prayer for the complete healing of our little girl. We took to heart the words, “Do not fear, only believe” and we believed that our daughter would be healed.

When Sarabeth was delivered via c-section, I heard her cry.  She was alive, but by the look on my husband’s face, I knew she wasn’t healed. Alive, but unable to live. She was with us for seven days. We were given the gift of time with her, and in that time we snuggled her, sang to her, and prayed over her.  

The days of that week were both precious and heart-breaking. We knew she couldn’t live long, but we didn’t know when her body would give out. But, for all the grief and heart wrenching decisions we faced that week, a settled peace undergirded my soul. Jesus was near. In the middle of the night, after caring for her in the NICU for a few hours so we could sleep, the nurses would bring Sarabeth to me. Skin-to-skin, I would snuggle her close to me in bed. In those dark night hours, the presence of Jesus was so clear to me—He was holding me as I was holding my little girl.

And still, I prayed that He would say to her miraculously, “Little girl, I say to you, arise.”

On the seventh day it became obvious that the life-sustaining measures we were taking were no longer effective and we needed to let Sarabeth go. She was gently unhooked from all the equipment, and her breathing tube was removed. They laid her in our arms. She opened her eyes briefly and looked at me. Her whole face, which had held in it the tension of deformity, relaxed. We wept as we held her and her breathing slowed.  

In that moment, as she was passing from earthy life, I clearly sensed the presence of Jesus kneeling in front of us, His arms out to receive her. It was as if He said tenderly, “Sweetheart, arise,” and reached through the veil of death to raise her to eternal life. Immediately the words, “Safe in the arms of Jesus” echoed in my mind and I knew she was Home, fully healed, fully loved, fully alive.

Our prayers had been answered in eternal finality.

In the heartbreak I have walked in since Sarabeth went to be with Jesus, His presence has been more real to me than ever before in my life. Pain seeks to kill and destroy, but the Giver of Life has made His presence in my pain unmistakable and unavoidable. He is healing my broken heart by meeting me in the depths of sorrow.

I ran across a poem the other day that I had learned many years ago but had forgotten. It is by Amy Carmichael, who was an Irish missionary to India from 1895-1951. She was no stranger to pain and suffering. This poem holds the beautiful tension of the soul-ache of pain in the midst of the presence of God. He comes into the very center of our pain and tells us, “Do not fear.”

Thy servant Lord, hath nothing in the house,
Not even one small pot of common oil;
For he who never cometh but to spoil
Hath raided my poor house again, again,
That ruthless strong man armed, whom men call Pain.

I thought that I had courage in the house,
And patience to be quiet and endure,
And sometimes happy songs; now I am sure
Thy servant truly hath not anything,
And see my song-bird hath a broken wing.

My servant, I have come into the house –
I who know Pain’s extremity so well
That there never can be the need to tell
His power to make the flesh and spirit quail:
Have I not felt the scourge, the thorn, the nail?

And I, his conqueror, am in the house,
Let not your heart be troubled: do not fear: 
Why shouldest thou, child of Mine, if I am here?
My touch will heal thy song-bird’s broken wing, 
And he shall have a braver song to sing.

The Lord is indeed near to the brokenhearted. It is His very presence, with us during the days of Sarabeth’s short life and palpably kneeling with us as she passed, that has healed my song-bird’s broken wing and given me a song of hope and joy to sing.

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Abigail is mama to her toddler daughter and to Sarabeth who went to be with Jesus seven days after her birth in January 2018. She and her husband, Chad, live in Berea, KY on the family farm where they raise cattle. In addition to being a stay-at-home-mom and teaching piano part-time, Abigail blogs on Facebook and Instagram at A Healing Gratitude where her desire is to share Sarabeth’s story in a way that highlights the goodness and love of God and demonstrate how gratitude can lead to greater healing.

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