Hands

A few weeks ago I took the kids to a routine appointment to check on our daughter's healing collarbone.  We were all excited upon our arrival to discover the pediatric orthopedic office was well stocked with tvs, video games, books, and interesting decorations. I settled down into a chair and my two youngest climbed on my lap with  books they'd found for me to read to them.
Suddenly, the atmosphere changed.  A security guard burst in and told the nurses and receptionists to hold the doors open.  He radioed something into his walkie-talkie about how they were going to bring the patient over to the emergency room.  More uniformed men joined him and then a gurney was rolled from the doctor's office through the waiting room and out the front door.  On it was a mother's worst nightmare.  A tiny baby, maybe a week old, was being given CPR.  His mother was following close behind, wailing and wringing her hands. 
All I could do was pray.  I desperately wanted God to come into the picture and make it all better, the way that only He can.   "Come, come, come, Lord Jesus" I repeated, hoped, demanded.
From what I could see, He did not.

I have been pursuing healing from some of the traumas in my own life.  I believe the theology of an omnipresent God, so I know He was there.  And I believe the theology of an omniscient God, so I know He is well aware of everything going on in my life.  And I believe, too, that He is omnipotent.  Therein lies the problem.  What was this all-powerful God doing, exactly, when I was experiencing suffering? If He was there and aware, what did He do? Just stare? I've looked back on some of the darkest  moments of my life and wondered whether or not He was present and helping me.
From what I could see, He was not.

During a recent prayer time, I dialogued honestly with Him. I realized there was a disconnect between what my head thinks about Him and how my heart feels toward Him.  So, I asked him. "God, where were you when I was experiencing this childhood trauma?"
And He answered.  I saw a picture in my mind's eye of that waiting room.  There was the baby, dwarfed again by the size of the white sanitized bed he was on-the nurse pushing rhythmically on his tiny chest. Her face tense in concentration and hopeful anticipation.  And below her hand I saw another.  Inside, encircling the baby's tiny heart was a strong, gentle hand.  On it's back I saw a round scar. 

Then I knew.  No matter what acted on the outside of my life the hand of Jesus was there, holding my heart.  He does not need to be summoned, He is already, always there. He holds us because we are His and because of who He is.
Is He present in our suffering?

From what I can see now, He IS.