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Come quickly to help me,
my Lord and my Savior.
Psalm 38:22 (NIV)
I have very fond memories of my grandparents taking me on childhood visits to see Aunt Kate and Uncle Frank. It was typically an afternoon visit when the Dutch American tradition of mid-afternoon “coffee time” was strictly observed, though Aunt Kate always make tea and served some form of Dutch treats with it. Kate was my grandfather’s sister and was afflicted with what I assume is the same genetic form of hearing loss that also afflicted my grandfather and was passed to my father and then to me. She wore an early type of hearing aid that looked like a transistor radio that hung around her neck with a wired earbud that made it appear to my child-eyes that she was always listening to a ball game on the radio. Uncle Frank was legally blind, though he was a renowned gunsmith and he sightlessly crafted things with his hands that I couldn’t manage to craft with 20-20 vision and all the tools in the world. I once struck up a conversation with a complete stranger at a bar in Minnesota and somehow we ended up talking about Uncle Frank. The guy was seriously in awe and wanted me to try and get him Uncle Frank’s autograph (Frank had long since passed away).
As I grew older, it fascinated me to visit Kate and Frank and watch them navigate life together in their little house. She was his eyes. He was her ears. I never heard a word of complaint from either of them regarding their disabilities.
Illness and physical ailments are part of life’s journey. I recognize that, for some, it is significant to the point of being all-consuming. I count among my many blessings the fact that I have enjoyed relatively good health thus far in my trek. The genetic Vander Well hearing loss has been more annoying than debilitating in any way.
I have known many individuals along the way, like Kate and Frank, who have had to live with various forms of illness, weakness, and impairment. I have also observed the diverse ways that individuals handle their difficulties from those who courageously and wordlessly adapt to those who wallow ceaselessly in victim-status.
We are nearing the end of the first section in the anthology of ancient song lyrics that is the book of Psalms. The compilers ended “Book I” of the anthology with four songs with confession as a central theme. Today’s chapter, Psalm 38, is the first of them.
David is seriously ailing. The reason and nature of his wounds and illness are lost to history, but the warrior-king is ill to the point of distress and he hears the whispers (real or imagined) of those who are waiting for him to die so they can politically maneuver themselves into positions of power. He enjoyed a relatively long life and made his mark as a strong and heroic warrior. I can imagine that being physically diminished had to have been a struggle on multiple levels for him. So, as he always did, he channeled his emotions into song.
I have noticed that it is very human for those who have enjoyed health an strength to spiritually question sudden and drastic changes in their fortune. Job questions, agonizes, and laments at great length. So, it’s not surprising that David would wonder if there was something he did to bring on his own ill-fortune.
I have learned that one of the great things about the Psalms is that they often give words to my own very human feelings and emotions. I can identify with David’s own human emotions and struggles. Sometimes I encounter individuals who think that being a follower of Jesus is some kind of psychological crutch to avoid life’s harsh realities, but I have found it to be just the opposite. I can’t be a follower of Jesus if I’m not willing to fully embrace suffering life’s harsh realities. In doing so, it’s nice to know that others, like David, have been there before. I get to sing the blues along with him.
At the end of his “woe-is-me” blues David utters a simple plea for God to be near, and to help. I can almost feel him so depleted of life energy that all he can muster is a meager cry for help.
Sometimes on this life journey circumstance reduces us to compacted prayer,