Note: I could share so many more of Meg Apperson’s blogs, but I will let you check them out on your own (http://www.fourfinelives.com). However, I wanted to end with this one, especially in this Christmas season. With everything going on in your life and around the world, can you also say Jesus is Enough?

I wrote this post on August 20, 2020–two weeks before Avery’s big surgery. I never posted it, but I think it’s meant for someone to read. I think it serves a better purpose here than hidden away in my notes. I hope these words encourage you.

In preparation for a major event in our lives, which will be painful and traumatic, regardless of the outcome, I’ve been studying Psalm 112. The part that initially caught my attention was the phrase in verse 7–“They have no fear of bad news” (referring to the righteous). 

I’ve run the gamut of fearful feelings about what may happen in two weeks, anticipating all versions of news. At first I cried, but sad feelings freak me out, so I stopped crying and switched into management mode. I dropped liquid probiotics into Avery’s food; increased her workouts to help her get into her best physical shape before surgery; and did as much research as possible. Then I distracted myself with books and baking and homeschool and projects—anything to keep busy, to keep moving. Outrun the feelings, keep a stiff upper lip, show everyone that you can handle it, is my favorite ego narrative. “Look, everyone! Look how good I am at being strong when things are hard!” (It seems noble to suffer well, to withstand a lot with little complaining, but not when the point is to direct people back to myself. That’s just narcissism.) 

And this has all mostly worked, except I still feel the fear nipping at my heels and no matter how quickly I run, it’s always with me, matching my footfalls, mirroring my cadence. That’s because it’s not a fix—it’s barely even a bandaid. 

I’m embarrassed to admit that even my personal devotions have been relegated to my head space, where I can acquire knowledge about the Bible, without entering into stillness and contemplation, because that’s what I avoid the most these days. The stillness, the quiet, when the images of a baby too broken to blink or speak any longer come to find me. Where I begin to go through the steps of mentally preparing for a tiny coffin or perhaps a visit to the shores of our favorite beach where her ashes could mix with the ocean water in which I played as a child—a morbid, full circle of life. And it’s not the stillness that’s the problem —it’s that going into the quiet without Jesus is always panic and dread. It’s when we try to be bear our own burdens, instead of casting them on the One who purchased the freedom and healing for any burden under which we may labor.

(Excerpt from Psalm 112) 

6 “Surely the righteous will never be shaken; they will be remembered forever.”

7 “They will have no fear of bad news; their hearts are steadfast, trusting in the Lord.”

8 “Their hearts are secure, they will have no fear;”

All of these verses center around the idea that these are the promises for those who trust in the Lord, who fear Him. And I realized that quiet and still was exactly where I needed to be, but with Jesus. Where I scoop up all the pictures of loss and dread and ashes and death and place them into hands that still bear the glorious marks of the cross. Where I admit, “I can’t carry this” and He says, “You were never meant to.” 

I write this as I sit on my back deck, watching a tiny five-year-old in an American flag bathing suit, splashing around in a baby pool. It’s the only way we could keep her cool enough to tolerate the summer heat and it’s something she’s always wanted—to “swim” (or as close to swim as we can get while she has her trach). My heart is calm. I’m free to just sit and watch; to be present with her in her delight of this new watery experience; to let my mind observe her without premeditating on how I might have to live without her soon. Whether she stays or goes, Jesus will be enough. 

I’m not steadfast because I’m strong. I’m steadfast because with Jesus at the helm of my heart, I get to be weak and human. I don’t have to be in control or try to work hard enough for a good outcome. I just get to trust. And I don’t trust in God because He has always healed Avery in the past (which He has); but because, even if her healing occurs because He takes her home during the first week of September, He is still good. He is still kind. His love endures forever.