If Only the Throne Room
JOB 40:6-8; 41:11
6 Then the LORD answered Job from the whirlwind:
7 “Brace yourself like a man, because I have some questions for you, and you must answer them.
8 Will you discredit my justice and condemn me just to prove you are right?” …
11 “Who has given me anything that I need to pay back? Everything under heaven is mine.”
BROKENNESS & RESTORATION
I open my email one morning to see a collection of family photos in my inbox, photos of a family I don’t know. The couple sits on a tan couch, their arms full of two brothers – a toddler and a preschooler – climbing and hugging and laughing on their mom and dad. Well, one of their moms and one of their dads. At first glance, they are beautiful photos of a beautiful family by a talented photographer, and I can’t help but smile at their joy frozen in time.
But then I remember this was the photo shoot set up by one of our volunteer leaders as a gift to the family I don’t know, a gift to try to comfort their grieving hearts because the boys are suddenly and unexpectedly going home to their first mom and first dad. After years of giggles and bedtime stories and scraped knees, after years of being told the brothers wouldn’t be going home, after years of the foster parents believing this is what their family would look like forever, these handful of photos in my inbox will be their last as a family of four. The photographer beautifully captured an image of their family at this moment in time, but not even she can hold onto the image of the future family that’s in these two parents’ hearts and minds. In 17 days, their future dreams, the future vacations and holidays and memories they thought they’d have together, they will all be gone. The boys are going home, but it's not their home.
It is brokenness. It is restoration.
Within hours of those photographs hitting my inbox, I receive a phone call from a mom who tells me she’s looking for mental health services for their son. The mom honestly confesses to me that she’s counting down the days until he’s 18 so she doesn’t have to feel guilty for his poor decisions anymore, so she doesn’t have to feel guilty that he continues to refuse the medical treatment his failing organs really need. No one told them it would be this way, she says. No one told her love wasn’t enough. She tells me her son is already in therapy, but it hasn’t broken his resolve against lifesaving testing and surgery. I suddenly realize that the son already has resources, so this phone call must be about something else. I ask the mom about her own support network. She tells me she’s never met another foster or adoptive parent. Ever. My mind can’t quite grasp journeying through adoption, much less a series of health crises, alone. I connect them with another family who has walked through what their family is walking through, and the lady on the other end of the phone begins to cry. Her son may still refuse treatment, but it is her first connection with someone who gets it, with someone who has been there.
It is brokenness. It is restoration.
Then, later, a call from an adoptive dad with a biological daughter in crisis. He is dejected, angry, almost aggressive. Through piercing, frustrated words, he asks about a residential center in Connecticut. He’s done more research than any other parent I’ve run into yet, and between the hostility I can hear love for his daughter in his voice. Against my own rising frustration at his tone and with a pounding, tired heart, I tell him about the love I hear. He pauses, silent, and then he breaks. He confesses to me, now in barely a whisper, that no one has ever told him he’s a good dad. Not once. He feels like a bad dad. He doesn’t know if he will ever forgive himself for the mistakes he must have made for things to end up this way. He doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to send his daughter to the treatment facility halfway across the county. But he decides to fight for what he knows she needs, even if it hurts his own fighting heart.
It is brokenness. It is restoration.
My phone buzzes with a new text message, and I can already tell it’s not one I wanted to see this afternoon. Or ever. A dear friend, one who has already endured countless injections and negative pregnancy tests and dashed hopes, tells me – too matter-of-factly – that expectant mom decided to parent. They have a nursery painted, tiny clothes arranged in a coordinating dresser, a name on the wall. They were days away from becoming parents through adoption, and now suddenly their adoption plan – and, with it, their hopes and dreams – has been disrupted. They thought this time would be different, that surely this time must be different, but it ended with the same broken heart. I know that baby belongs with birth mama. They know that baby belongs with birth mama. But they aren’t ready to hear it again yet, to accept it yet. So I text back the most honest words I can muster: My heart breaks for you, friend.
It is brokenness. It is restoration.
A few days later, I meet with a couple who has been in the adoption process for eight years. Eight years. They have been matched with their boys for almost as long, and the boys know they have a Mommy and Daddy coming. This couple can’t walk away, not now, but the boys’ country is trying everything in their power to get them to – adding requirements as the couple jumps and clears each hoop, intimidating them with false charges of crimes they didn’t commit, always threatening to shut down the country’s program entirely. It’s messy and complicated. They aren’t sure they will ever get to see the end of the story with their boys in it. But I hear a resolve in their voice, a faith they are certain they wouldn’t have known if not for these unexpected delays and disappointments. God is faithful, they tell me.
I’m walking away from the meeting, down the massive staircase in the even more massive atrium of our church, when a thought suddenly comes to my heart. My husband and I have been waiting three years in our own adoption journey, waiting for borders to reopen after a global pandemic and watching as our boy’s health declines on the other side of the world, unable to do a single solitary thing about it. It all feels so unjust. There are literally hundreds of people praying for our Sam, but the mountains aren’t moving. If we’re honest, I know deep down we may never get to see the end of the story with our boy in it either.
And – here’s the thought that comes sudden and unwelcome to my heart – am I okay with that?
Would it be enough for me if God led us here only to write a different story from the one I’m expecting for, hoping for, praying for? Would it be enough for me if the only thing that comes of this long, expensive, heart-wrenching journey is that the little boy we thought we would be ours is prayed over like he has never been before? Would it be enough if the only thing that we have done for Sam is to spur hundreds of people to bring him before the throne room of the Creator of the Universe?
If you are left with only My throne room, will that be enough for you?
God could have moved things by now. He could have brought our boy home. But He hasn’t. And it all feels so unjust and unnecessary. When no answer returns to my God, His question reverberates once again through my aching heart:
If it’s only the throne room you get from all this, who will you say that I am?
If it’s only the throne room you get from all this, will you still say I’m faithful?
If it’s only the throne room…
It is brokenness.
ANOTHER QUESTION FOR JOB
For some strange reason, Sam’s adoption journey has centered around the book of Job. I’ve never much liked the book of Job, but the Lord keeps bringing me back here, which makes me think He isn’t done with me yet. And in Job 40, after 39 chapters of trying to defend himself, God still isn’t done with Job yet either. Poor Job, covered in scabby boils and past his wit’s end, is now also at the end of his questions and excuses. Job’s defensiveness has completely run dry in the face of an almighty God – a God who has stooped down to meet him in his pain, a God who has taken on the presence of a literal whirlwind. I imagine Job closing his eyes, bowing his head, and bracing himself against the windstorm, holding on with all his might before he’s swept away by the grandeur of God or by his own minuteness. I’m guessing Job is suddenly wishing he had stopped a few monologues shy of where he landed.
Because this time, God is leaving no doubts on the table. He asks Job, “Will you discredit my justice and condemn me just to prove you are right?”
Will you discredit My justice?
That’s the same question I heard walking down the steps in the atrium that day. It’s the same one I still hear echoing in my soul, especially on the hard days:
If you are left with only the throne room, will that be enough for you?
Weirdly, the only answer I can muster comes from a discussion we had my first semester of seminary…about genocide.
ANSWERS FROM...GENOCIDE?
“The thing I’m really struggling with is the question of genocide in the Old Testament, specifically the Canaanites. What do we do with a God who would not only allow, but seemingly command, the destruction of an entire people group?”
The room went completely silent. Only the whirr of the heat kicking on could be heard. I shivered anyway, either from the cold or the weight of such a big question. Every single student sat frozen, waiting expectantly. My pen hovered over the page, ready to write.
This is why I had come to seminary, after all. I wanted to learn how to read Scripture for myself. I wanted to study and take exams and write again. But mostly, I came because I had questions. I had lots of really hard questions I couldn’t answer. In fact, I had lots of really hard questions I, as a leader in ministry, felt like I couldn’t even ask. And this was one of them.
It was first semester hermeneutics. Just 10 weeks ago, I couldn’t imagine myself as a seminary student. Just 5 weeks ago, I couldn’t even spell “hermeneutics.” But by the Lord’s nudging (or, more accurately, elbowing into my rib cage, because I’m nothing if not stubborn), here I was. It was day two of an in-person intensive class, and we were supposed to be studying the genres of Scripture and how God uses specific literary features to convey His thoughts. But by this point, we had led our professor down an hour-long tangent, asking all the hard questions we hadn’t found a safe place to ask before. And blessedly, he was here for it. With a slight smirk, he once again asked us to open our Bible to Deuteronomy. We quickly learned that nothing would be answered without Scripture in this class, and I felt something in my soul shift, unlock, like all the questions I wanted to ask were safe to come out. As it turned out, God had already answered a lot of the questions I wanted to hide away.
“Well, first, we need to talk about this word genocide…”
Dr. M walked us through the meaning of the word, how what God had commanded was not about race or ethnicity, but about cultural practices like infant sacrifice and public sexual assault in the name of religion. He walked through the specific attacks Israel initiated against the major military cities and how “total destruction” was often hyperbole. He then explained that the Lord had always given the Canaanites a way out of His judgment, both as a group and as individuals. They only had to turn from their evil practices. Rahab came to mind as a fantastic example of someone who turned to the Lord and was accepted into the family of God’s people – even becoming a great-great-great-great grandmother in the lineage of Jesus!
But what Dr. M said next would stay with me for weeks. It would be with me as I worked, as I drove, and as I drifted off to sleep. It would work its way deep into the crevices of my hurting heart, a heart that still had questions. A heart that still longed for my sweet Sam. A heart that felt the sting of injustice that my sweet Sam was still on the other side of the world.
“But here’s the thing. The very thing you have questions about – this entering the Promised Land and driving out the Canaanites and all their practices – wouldn’t have created questions for the Jewish people at this moment in redemptive history. It would have answered them. See, God had promised Abraham this land 400 years before this moment. For 400 years, God’s people had waited, and they had watched the horrible practices of their neighbors, and they had wondered when the Lord would finally fulfill His promises. But for 400 years, God wasn’t ready for judgment on the Canaanites. He was still working out mercy for those who would turn from their evil practices and come to Him. What the Jewish people would have seen as injustice during those long 400 years, God saw as mercy.”
What they saw as injustice, God saw as mercy.
Immediately Sam’s thinning face and big toothy smile flashed across my mind. I suddenly felt the full weight of the injustice I had carried for so long – the whole injustice of this wait, with the pandemic and the spy balloons and the orphanage running out of food. I suddenly felt the weight of my belief – or was it resentment? – that I knew God could fix it and He hadn’t. He could intervene, but He hadn’t. He could bring my boy home, but He hadn’t. It just felt so wrong and unfair.
But maybe, just maybe, if what Dr. M said was true, then maybe what I was seeing as injustice, God was intending for mercy.
I hesitated momentarily, wavering between capturing every word my professor continued to speak and blinking back the sudden flood of tears threatening to overflow from my eyes. I hadn’t expected God to ambush my heart with something as uncomfortable as the destruction of the Canaanites. I hadn’t expected God to ambush me, like Job, with His sovereignty. I wondered how often in my life I had labeled something my way, when God was doing something far bigger than I would ever or could ever know.
Maybe what I see as injustice, God sees as mercy.
In that white, unadorned classroom, with snow gently falling outside, I realized something that would change everything in our unbearable, indefinite wait for our boy: Sam is God’s. His story, God’s. Our journey, God’s. This world, God’s. Every bit of it. God owns it all, every single thing. Every person, every story, every movement of history, every political decision or government policy, every court date or social worker, every day in class or meeting with a hurting family, every soul and tribe and nation. He is, according to Ephesians 4:6, “over all and through all and in all.” Psalm 24:1-2 adds, “The earth is the LORD's, and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it; for he founded it on the seas and established it on the waters.” There is nothing that is not His and not under His authority.
Furthermore, as Job 41:11 reminds us, God owes me nothing. He owes you nothing. He owes us all absolutely nothing. He is the Creator of everything, the One who speaks planets into existence with just one word. He had no obligation to save us when humanity ruined his holy creation. He had no obligation to reveal Himself through His world, His Word, or His Son. But He did it. He maybe hasn’t brought Sam home yet, but He already did all of that for me.
He has chosen, time and again, to love us. To pursue us. To rescue us. It is, in fact, the story of Scripture: A perfect God who never needed us intervened in a broken world to save us anyway. Not because we deserved it, but because He deserves the glory. Not because of our strength or goodness, but because of His. Not because we are lovable, but because He is Love. Not because of literally anything we are, but because of literally everything He is. No other religion in the entire world has a God who let Himself be killed in order to save the people who rejoiced in killing Him. No other God has done what our God has done. No other God does what our God does.
And no other God will do what our God will do.
Hebrews 6 speaks of a hope for what is coming. This hope is a kingdom that cannot be shaken (Heb.12:28), a confidence to draw near to the Creator of heaven and earth (Heb. 10:19), the promise of a future where everything will be made right again (Heb. 10:13), and a faithful Savior who intervenes for us in the meantime (Heb. 10:23). We know that our God is not slow to keep His promises but is patiently waiting because He doesn’t want a single person to be without Him (2 Pet. 3:8-9).
It is brokenness. But it is restoration.
And what happens in this meantime is in the hands of the One who sees all, rules all, works all for His good (Rom. 8:28). Not everything that happens in this life is good, but He is. And that means that in this meantime – in this in-between space where my heart hurts and my soul is tired, but the hope is sure – I can trust that God is in control. He holds authority over the Milky Way, the pandemic, and the next step for our boy, whatever that is. He holds the stars in place, and He holds our Sam. And it is in this hope, and only this hope, that I can hold the tension between brokenness and restoration. It is in this place that I can call really hard things both broken and restored.
Maybe what we see as injustice, God sees as mercy.
When the child goes home. When the dossier is denied. When the country closes to adoption. When you sit across from a person who abused the child in your arms. When the next best choice is residential therapy. When you lose your job unexpectedly. When the coworker throws you under the bus. When the doctor opens the door, and by the look on their face, you know. When the friend abandons you. When whatever it is you thought your life would look like doesn’t look very much like it at all.
I don’t know the end of our story with Sam. I don’t know if he will ever come home. I don’t know if the Lord or Sam’s country will close the door first. But I do know that we serve a good God, a God who I know to be good even if we don’t get to see the end of the story. I know that we have a tribe of literally hundreds praying that Sam will know Jesus, with or without us, and that’s something no government, or policy, or power of hell can thwart. We may or may not be able to bring him home, but we can bring him before the throne room of the King.
If you are left with only My throne room, will that be enough for you?
I hope so. Because He is enough.