I believe; help my unbelief.

Today is a big day. In many ways, it's the day my wife and I have been waiting for for months. It's the day we meet with all the doctors and specialists at Mayo Clinic.

As I write this, it's 430am. I got up to do my prayer and journaling. I wanted to. I had to. But I'll be honest: I didn't like what God told me.

This isn't going to be the easiest thing I've ever written. But it will be one of the most necessary. As I was praying and writing, I asked God to give us answers today. To bring this long journey to some sort of conclusion. To let us know what is actually going on, what is causing all this pain for my wife, and how to treat it.

Do you know what he told me? He answered me with two questions:

"Jon, if you don't get answers, I need you to be OK with that. Will you still trust me? Will you still call me good?"

I'm writing that with tears in my eyes. I know what the answer NEEDS to be. I know what I WANT it to be. But I'm not sure I have that strength right now. So I wrote the only thing in my journal that I could muster:

"I believe, Lord. But help my unbelief."

Maybe you've heard that phrase before. It comes from the book of Mark in the Bible. I looked it up again this morning after I wrote it down. Not surprisingly, the context is pretty similar to what I'm experiencing now.

That section of Mark features a story of a father crying out to Jesus to heal his son. The father is at the end of his rope. He's desperate. He's got nothing left, except for one last attempt to literally scream out to Jesus for help.

"If you can do anything, have compassion on us and help us," the father yells.

Friend, that has been my prayer so many times over the last year. Maybe it's been yours at times. Maybe it's yours now.

So how does Jesus respond? He has a sort of air quote moment: “‘If you can’! All things are possible for one who believes.”

That's when we get the famous quote from the father: "I believe; help my unbelief!"

Here's where it gets really interesting. The scriptures say that Jesus did heal the boy. But it didn't exactly look how everyone expected. How so? See, the boy had a "spirit" in him that "made him mute." So Jesus commanded that spirit to come out. But that's when it got really ugly. In fact, it looked hopeless.

"And after crying out and convulsing him terribly, it came out, and the boy was like a corpse, so that most of them said, 'He is dead.'”

Did you catch that? It got worse before it got better. In fact, everyone thought the boy was dead. The "healing" everyone wanted — the healing the father wanted — looked very different. Imagine being that dad. You cry out for help, you're desperate, Jesus "heals" him, and when you look down you think your son is dead. I doesn't take a lot for me to imagine it, unfortunately. My wife woke up yesterday with new pains in new places. It certainly appears to be getting worse.

But as I read that, the question God asked me this morning struck my heart: "Will you still trust me? Will you still call me good?"

I'm a wreck.

Will you — will I — still call God good if all your prayers, your petitions, either go unanswered or are answered differently than how you think they should be? If you look down at your son — at your wife — and he appears "dead"?

I know how I want to answer that. But all I can muster at this point is, "I believe; help my unbelief."

Years ago, I heard a story at church that's relevant here — that models the kind of faith I want to have today, in this moment. Our pastor at the time, Matt Chandler, was talking about some parents in our church whose child was going through something (I think it was cancer). He recalled how someone asked the parents, "What if God doesn't heal your son?" Their response went something like this: "He's already done enough."

"He's already done enough."

Do you have the faith to say that? Do I?

"I believe, but help my unbelief." That's all I can conjure at the moment. And that's OK. How do I know? Because of how the story in Mark ends.

See, when everyone looked down and thought the child was dead, when all hope was gone, when the smallest amount of belief was all that the father could muster, "Jesus took [the boy] by the hand and lifted him up, and he arose."

The boy went from death to life with a simple touch. Even though it looked bleak. Even though everyone thought he was dead. Even though it got worse before it got better.

That's what I'm resting in today. That's what I need today. But whatever happens, I know "he has already done enough." I believe that. But help my unbelief.

Hold me to that.

(Pic: The view out the window at the Mayo Clinic GI unit where we'll spend the day.)

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As I was posting this, the song “I Will Carry You” by Ellie Holcomb came on my Spotify. The words are so relevant. This will be today’s song on repeat.