Healing in the Margins: A Lamentations Launchpad

This week, as Advent begins, I find myself wrestling with hope in its most raw and vulnerable form. My niece's accident has become more than just a moment in time—it's a journey that's testing everything I understand about waiting, healing, and faith.

She wants to be better now. I can see it in her eyes—that mixture of frustration and determination. Each day feels like an eternity for her, marked by small victories that seem insignificant to others but are monumental to her. A finger that moves a little more, a moment of less pain, a smile that breaks through the difficult days.

I'm struck by how much her healing journey parallels the Advent season. Waiting. Hoping. Believing in something not yet fully realized. Just as the world waited for centuries for the promise of Christ, we're waiting for her complete restoration. And waiting is hard. So incredibly hard.

This morning, I found myself in Lamentations 3, and these words stopped me in my tracks:

"I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall. I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me. Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope:

Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, 'The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.'"

— Lamentations 3:19-24
These words. They're a lifeline. The writer acknowledges the pain—truly acknowledges it. The bitterness. The wandering. The affliction. There's no minimizing the struggle. But then comes that powerful turn: "Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope."

Some moments I'm angry. Angry at the accident, angry at the slow pace of healing, angry at the pain she's experiencing. Other moments, I'm overwhelmed with a profound sense of love and hope. How can these emotions coexist so intensely?

I've been reading about the first Advent—how people waited in darkness, holding onto a promise of light. My niece is living that metaphor. She's in her own kind of darkness, holding onto the promise of healing. Her spirit is remarkable. Even on the hardest days, there's this spark in her—a resilience that takes my breath away.

Today, I'm learning that hope isn't about having all the answers. It's about showing up. It's about holding her hand (sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively). It's about believing in healing even when the path is unclear.

Prayers feel different now. They're not eloquent. They're raw. "God, please. Help her. Heal her." Sometimes that's all I can muster.

The first Advent candle—the candle of hope—feels particularly significant this year. It's not a distant, abstract concept. Hope is the gentle squeeze of my niece's hand. It's the way she tries to smile through the pain. It's the medical team working tirelessly. It's our family, standing together.

"His compassions never fail," the scripture says. They are new every morning. Even on the hardest days, even when healing seems slow, there is this promise of renewed compassion. Of hope that doesn't depend on our circumstances, but on something—someone—far more constant.

I don't know what healing will look like. I don't know the timeline. But I know we're not alone in this waiting.

This morning, as I sit in the quiet, thinking about the first Advent candle, I'm reminded that hope isn't about perfect outcomes. It's about presence. It's about love continuing to show up, day after day, no matter what.

My prayer is simple: Let her feel loved. Let her feel hope. Let her healing continue, one small victory at a time.

Great is your faithfulness. Even now. Especially now.

Until tomorrow

Chaplain Mark