There was a thick, burnt orange line painted across the hospital tiles.

That line, that final threshold, is the point of separation where parents part from their children as the nurses wheel their beds into the operating room. I found myself grasping for ways to ground myself as my feet pivoted. The wall was blue. The sign above was red. My daughter, my daughter. Orange. Orange. Orange.

It was a battle to stay in my body without collapsing; to force my feet to go in the opposite direction, away from that place of departure. As I lifted my gaze from the floor, I almost lost it again. Because the processional of beds accompanied by parents and nurses stretched several children back. The child right behind my daughter couldn’t have been more than a month old, his chest rising and falling. I noticed his parent’s countenance matching my own and, after briefly observing the families similarly lined up behind ours, I couldn’t help but see this shared journey as a parade of sorts.  

When families go through medical traumas, there is often not so much a crisis of faith as there is a crisis of theology. What is true about God now? How do I even pray? How is it possible that God is good while my child or parent or friend is suffering?

I am a caregiving mother to four medically fragile kids, and I am a seminary student training to be a hospital chaplain. Over the years, I’ve tried it all. I’ve wrestled, wailed, and wept until I didn’t have any more tears. I say all of this to say that there is not a pretty sounding, logical answer to any of these questions. Suffering — the effects of sin in the world and amongst creation — throws a wrench in our surface-level ideal of what faith is supposed to be and who God is to those who suffer.  

Still, the image seared into my mind — of the parade of children rolling down the hallway — not only painted a poignant trinitarian picture: a suffering child, their loving parent, and the comforting nurse that wouldn’t leave the child’s side, but also an eschatological one. Jesus’ teachings in Mark 9-10 — in which He foretells his own suffering and pronounces a grand reversal — are centered on welcoming children.

But many who are first will be last, and last, first.
Mark 10:31 NASB

And when I think about Jesus’ words, in Matthew 25, that set the stage for this promised, future grand reversal, I can’t help but ponder how such a gathering of all the nations could likely include a royal processional that isn’t led by the powerful or influential . . . but by the last and least. A parade that elevates these medically vulnerable children to their rightful place of honor, prominence, and belonging with the King, a sure contrast to that place of pain that lay on the other side of the orange line.  

God’s heart and purpose is for the vulnerable. God champions their flourishing and belonging. The totality of scripture is a testament to this. And when I, along with so many other families, am navigating medical traumas in real time — sifting through what is real and what isn’t, what is true about God and what isn’t — I know that God’s love for those who suffer is good news.

God’s love for the vulnerable is good news to the vulnerable.  

While my faith may oscillate and waver, God’s faithfulness doesn’t. God is faithful to be who He says He is. God’s love is faithful. While this world gravitates towards either exploiting suffering image bearers, ostracizing them, or avoiding them entirely, Jesus not only promises to honor them fully — affirming their dignity and belonging in advance — but He aligns Himself with those who suffer, over and over.  

If God-with-us is who God is, and God-with-us-in-suffering is who God is, then I don’t need a fluffy answer, or a proof-texted verse ripped out of context. The person and work of Jesus is enough, with or without answers. With or with out faith that is any larger than a mustard seed.  

In those long hours while my daughter was in the operating room, I prayed in the hospital garden. I let creation remind me the truth about our Creator. I marveled at the trumpet-shaped yellow flowers and the way the dew glistened on long blades of grass. I can’t explain it, but God was with me. His peace was ever-present.

I know He was with my daughter, too. God remains with us through every hard and holy moment, offering comfort and carrying us through. And while many might say that the absence of suffering is more desirable than the presence of God in the midst of suffering, I have to disagree.

In suffering, God reveals the secret places of His heart to the people who need Him most. It is a treasure to allow ourselves to be comforted by a loving God who promises goodness and doesn’t leave us.

There is no orange line with God. No point of separation. And, one day, all of the orange lines — all separation, all suffering — will be gone forever.  

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