When a difficult challenge arises for someone I love, more often than not, I launch right into problem-solving mode.
When my oldest son was officially diagnosed with hearing loss, I immediately started working on an action plan. I got him fitted with hearing aids and made regular appointments for both speech and occupational therapies. I started actively learning sign language, just in case. I joined all the social media groups for parents of children with hearing loss. I read about deaf culture and watched all the shows that prominently featured deaf actors. I was determined that nothing was going to stand in the way of my son having full access to this world.
When I discover that someone I love, especially one of my children, is facing an unexpected challenge, I move quickly to help my loved one get everything needed to navigate, if not overcome, it. Advocating for and supporting someone is not necessarily a bad practice. But more often than not, in my haste to get to work, I skip an important first step, a step Jesus illustrates well.
In the Gospel of John, we read about the time Jesus was called to the home of his friends Martha, Mary, and Lazarus, because Lazarus was ill. By the time Jesus arrives, Lazarus has been dead for four days. Some observers comment that the one who healed a man blind from birth could surely have saved his friend from death. Even Martha and Mary express their dismay to Jesus: “Lord, if you had been here, our brother would not have died.” (John 11:21, 32) It is always at this point in the story that I want to rush to Jesus’ side and implore him to hurry. I want to shout in his ear, “Jesus, heal him already! Please stop making your friends wait to rejoice!”
But I do not think Jesus would be moved to hasten anything by my words. It is clear that Jesus is in no rush to fix this moment with a quick miracle. Instead, he takes intentional time to breathe in the scene around him, allowing himself to be deeply troubled by the tears of his friends and even moved to tears himself out of their shared pain. He makes sure his friends know through his first actions, “I am here. I am grieving this with you. When you are ready, we will move forward together.”
As my oldest enters his teenage years, we are starting to have more open and honest conversations about what he needs. I am learning that, more often than not, he is not looking for me to be his instant problem-solver. Instead, he is looking for me to follow the example of Jesus in response to his grieving friends. My son needs, before anything else, to know I am there, sharing in his discomfort and pain, and waiting patiently until he is ready for us to move forward together.
