He Is Alive

I closed my eyes and listened for a heartbeat. And, then, suddenly, it was there. My own heart leapt with hope. But the midwife moved the wand, knowing the fetal Doppler was picking up my dear friend Marissa’s heartbeat and not the heartbeat of her son, Elijah – twenty-two weeks in her womb – whose miraculous existence she learned through a dream before a test even confirmed she was pregnant. 

I opened my eyes, just for a moment, and looked at Marissa’s feet on the edge of the bed. The gray and black striped socks. Her husband swallowing as he held her hand and smiled encouragement.

The midwife added more gel, gently tucked a paper napkin inside the top of Marissa’s jeans, and continued searching for a heartbeat. Her thoroughness touched me, though I sensed she believed it was for nothing.

Two weeks ago, Marissa and Joel stood before our small church in southwest Wisconsin and told us that their child was clinically declared dead, and then asked those who believe in the power of prayer to come forth and pray. I was one of the first to rise to my feet and embrace Marissa, a strange mirroring of how I had been one of the first to rise and hug her when she and Joel shared with the congregation that she was expecting.

That Sunday, two weeks ago, I believed God could bring that child back from the dead as much as I believed in Him. I had listened to testimonies of the blind being healed, of jewels tumbling down from the sky into cupped orphan hands, of a dead man sitting up after an Indian pastor breathed on him.

All of these miracles had taken place among the poor, but we were as equally desperate as them, and so we gathered around that young couple and prayed for life like we’ve never prayed for anything.

And then–in the turquoise room, with the curtains fluttering–there was no heartbeat. Despite our prayer and belief, the midwife quietly turned off the Doppler and said she couldn’t find anything.

Where did that leave us?

I knew where it left me. It left me believing it was over. That God had answered our petition with an answer that Elijah was not coming back. But Joel said, “All right, God is not a God of dates. We’ll just wait and see.”

Wait and see. What faith.

Afterward, we filed out of the small, brightly-colored house with its pictures of babies and basket of primarily-colored blocks and other toys on the floor, and we walked down the steps to the car.

We sat in there, the three of us, along with a miraculous baby tucked in the womb.

Joel said, after a long silence, “I’m mainly just confused.”          

That’s how we all felt. We wondered if the outcome of this was predetermined, or if we could move the heart of God, like the woman who petitioned the king, through prayer and fasting.

Driving home, into the sunshine, the clouds skidding across the brilliant blue, I had questions: What was the purpose of suffering? To make us stronger? To make us more empathetic? More like Christ, who suffered more than any of us?

And: What does it mean when we pray and intercede and fast, and yet we find our heartbeat is the only one flooding the room, and we then begin to doubt if we can hear His?

Are healings and miracles predetermined? If so, why do we pray? Why does God ask us to seek His face? Why does Hebrews 11 declare, “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”

Or, in this case, heard.

I pulled into the driveway of our farm and bundled up our girls: four years old and nineteen months. We then trekked out into creation, my place of solace, where I often feel closest to God.

My eldest daughter pointed to the green tulip leaves pushing up through the dirt.

“’Member,” she murmured, “when the church said, ‘He’s alive!’?”

I nodded, recalling the poignant Easter skit that had taken place the week before.

She said, “The tulips are saying, ‘He’s alive!’”

My throat tightened. I reached for my daughter’s hand. She smiled up at me, full of brown-eyed innocence, and I realized I don’t need answers to my questions as much as I need to rest assured in the fact that God is indeed alive, and His heartbeat resounds throughout all of creation, even if sometimes our minds clang so loudly that we do not hear it.

In His gentleness, He does not berate doubt, but instead reminds us of His promises through the small voice of a faith-filled child, who believes that, even if we can’t see the flowers, one day they will push through the earth and bloom.

Have you ever prayed for a miracle? Did you receive the answer you were hoping for?