
I am struggling today.
I'm in a resort hotel in Dallas, crowded with doubts about why I’m here and what my purpose is, and thousands of miles away from my family on a Sunday afternoon. Somewhere in Oregon today a celebration is being held, a recounting of the life of a young girl who died last week of leukemia.
I never met Brooke, but I knew a little of her story. Her nurse Carla broadcast her story in an effort to bring postcards to Brooke last year, postcards of far-off places that Brooke, who always wanted to travel, would not be able to see due to her illness.
I sent postcards of Germany and of Hawaii, and of more mundane places like Sacramento and Chicago and Minneapolis. This was a year ago.
In Minneapolis I found a small church a block from the juvenile Mississippi, and late one night I kneeled on its steps and prayed with all my being. I asked God if it was within his power and his vision that he would lift Brooke up and heal her. I asked that if he couldn’t do this that he would ease the hearts of her family, and all those who came into Carla’s compassionate net and cared for the girl they didn’t know.
I don’t pray much, and have no history of being moved by prayer or by the presence of God. But I left the darkened church and its steep, inviting steps knowing that I had asked with a clear heart, if not an unwavering voice. This was 11 ½ months ago.
Brooke got better, and her leukemia went into remission. I wondered if God had indeed heard all the prayers directed her way, and if he had bent the fabric of time and space to mend her in some way. By September I became a Christian. The two are not dependent on one another, and I didn’t read Brooke’s turn as a “miracle” that brought me to Christ. I probably would have come to my baptism without ever knowing of Brooke. But once there I did think of her and her story, and took strength from it.
But Brooke became sick again, and a week ago she left us. It has been hard on my faith. It has been hard on my heart. Tears come to me when I don’t want them to. My faith is still here, wounded and tired as it is. I simply wish I understood better. Brooke left behind a younger sister named Carmen who adored her, and a mother and a father whose sense of sorrow I can only imagine. My prayers ask now for God to give them peace, and ease their troubles. My prayer is for hope to be rekindled in faint hearts.
I have a number of pictures of Brooke that were sent to me in the course of her story, but I can’t seem to bring myself to post them here. It wouldn’t be right without asking her parents, and it seems intrusive. Instead I have included a picture of the cathedral on the Mississippi where I talked to God about this little girl. He heard me that night, and he answered me—though I don’t yet know how to interpret his words.
I recently found a poem by James Freeman called "I am There." Today, when people are gathered in central Oregon to celebrate the life and gifts of this 6-year-old girl and to offer their thanks for her brief presence with us, I post it on this site to add my voice to theirs.
Goodbye, Brooke. Thank you.
I am There
By James Dillet Freeman
Do you need Me?
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