There were already people praying in the room when we entered. The music from the sanctuary drifted through the walls in a muffled hum. There was conversation I didn’t fully absorb, hand shakes, and exchanged names, as the few people in the prayer room joined the five of us who had entered in forming a circle around my husband.

And then we prayed.

A man more than twice my age, a man who has lead and pastored others for decades, an elder, the kind of person who you meet and just know there’s something different about them — a quiet, calm, presence — quoted James 5 and anointed Bryan with oil.

After prayers and words were spoken. After all was received and tears were shed, she gave me a hug and whispered. “Can I pray against fear and worry for you?”

And then they were gathering around me and, with tears streaming down my face, they prayed.

The music from the sanctuary stopped. We made our way out of the prayer room, still wiping tears from red eyes. We stood in the back, leaning against the wall, leaning against each other.

Craig spoke about despair, discouragement, losing hope. He talked about empty jars and miracles. He named us co-workers with Christ, trusting even after disappointment. Bringing what we have, what little we have, and letting God do the miraculous.

Tears streamed down my cheeks again. Both for the power of the message, and for the joy of getting to see a good friend living fully in their gifting.

Others spoke. Sharing the story of how God was working in their church and how God was working in their lives. Fr. James Mallon talked about the prodigal son and the nature of God. He spoke of the compassion of God. He talked about the older son having his identity all wrong — he thought he was a slave, when really he was a son, everything the father had was already his. And I thought again of the words I wrote so recently, “to neglect to ask, to only ever bow, is to forget our rightful place in God’s family, it is to forget our free will (the very fact that we have desires and wants, and are not robots to God’s sovereignty), it is to be the child that cowers in the corner afraid to ask the parent for crumbs when the table is heavy with a feast.”

Sobs come at the same time as laughs. My eyes fill, my shoulders shake, my lips spread wide. It’s impossible to sing, but somehow I force out the words.

Bryan stepped away for prayer. I stayed, swaying and crying and singing.

Bryan came back and wrapped his arm around me. The lights came up, the night was ended, but we kept swaying and softly singing, humming to the music. People filed past us, but I was only barely conscious of them. We clung to each other.

And in that moment something shifted, something broke, something fell away.

We sat quietly processing the day as the room slowly cleared.

“This is going to sound strange, I’m not sure how to explain it…” I shifted my weight, looked away, then back at Bryan, then looked away again.

He waited patiently for me to continue.

“There was a moment, when we were at NIH… there was this one night when I had this really powerful experience with God. And I felt like he told me I needed to lay you on the alter like Abraham with Isaac.”

Bryan nods. He knows this story. He’s heard this before.

My voice falters and cracks and tears start filling my eyes again.

“Tonight, I felt like God gave you back to me.” The words burst out of me in one breath, in one sob. Then his arms were around me. We were both crying. My shoulders shook and I clutched his sweater with my fingers.

I know Bryan’s not really mine, he will always be God’s more than He is mine. But, tonight, I felt an exhale I have been waiting years for. I had been waiting, with baited breath and lifted knife, for seven years, held in that moment on the alter, asked to surrender all loves. And tonight, God said, “Enough.”

And I think I know a little of how Abraham must have cried with Isaac when God gave him back his son. Wild, clinging, cleansing tears.

Grace and peace,
Bethany