Living here in my Michigan cottage, I’ve been thinking about the many friends I still have in the Chicago area. I’ve also thought back on one friendship that traveled a very bumpy road.

This person who I knew for decades and loved deeply hurt me by something she did, taking advantage of our relationship in a way she didn’t see as a problem. To me it was cruel, but she never saw it that way, even when I confronted her.

The problem grew, however, in that this offense began to dominate my thinking, every single day. No matter how I tried, including repeated efforts to hand it over to the Lord, I couldn’t get rid of it. It was like someone had strapped a lead-filled back pack on me, insisting I carry it every waking moment.

One day I was complaining to another friend about the mess, defending my anger and my position as the victim. She’d heard my speech one too many times and finally asked, “What exactly would you like to happen, best case scenario?”

I was ready with an answer. “I want her to feel the hurt exactly like I do, so she’ll be sorry.”

It shocked and disappointed me when my friend shook her head and said, “She never will.”

I argued my position, but she stuck with her opinion. “You’ll have to give up wishing for that, or you’ll live the rest of your life hoping for something you’ll never get.”

I had a different scenario in mind. First, she would feel terrible and, with tears, would ask my forgiveness. Second, our friendship would be restored. Third, I’d be able to release my feelings of hostility and get closure.

After struggling for seven months, I realized my “friend” probably wasn’t thinking about the offense at all. And my other friend’s prediction was coming true: I was hoping for something I’d probably never get, and the striving was eating me up.

Why did I want this woman to feel the same pain I did? I guess I thought it would be a type of shared suffering, that if she felt badly too, I would only feel half as bad. It started to dawn on me, though, that even if she shared my misery, it wouldn’t have been enough.

Eventually I did find help. It came through two statements made by Pastor Colin Smith in a sermon:

1. God feels what you’re feeling.
2. Jesus went to the cross for the sin that caused your pain.

Once I realized God had been watching on the day she wounded me and genuinely felt the extent of my pain, it was as if someone lifted the heavy back pack from my shoulders. I also realized that because Jesus was tortured and killed for sin, he would deal with my offender personally and didn’t need my help.

These two truths were so freeing, it wasn’t long before I found myself moving back toward this woman, without resentment or anger. My get-even mentality had completely disappeared, along with its heaviness.

Seventeen years have gone by since the hurtful incident occurred. I’m still friends with this woman, and occasionally I think about it but without struggle or bitterness. If anything, I have greater appreciation for God’s power to affect change from the inside out, simply by showing me who he is. He’s a personal friend willing to share in our suffering, and he’ll insure justice in the end.

Although his “Rules for Relationships” often go against human logic, they work remarkably well. And in missing my Chicago friends, I am missing that friend, too.

”If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” (Romans 12:18)

[ Two days ago I promised to blog about the cousin who was killed in a car crash, the second childhood incident that taught me about prayer’s importance. One day late, here it is. ]

Growing up, we had five cousins living in distant California. The oldest, Karen, was a bit older than the rest of us, and we all looked up to her. She was full of personality with many friends, and when she was 17, one of them invited her to be a bridesmaid in her wedding.

That weekend Karen happily climbed into the groomsman’s blue Corvette, and with the top down, they began their two hour drive to the rehearsal. The bride and groom followed in their own sports car. While rounding a curve, a car driven by a drunk driver on a spree with three buddies crossed the centerline and slammed head-on into the Corvette.

Karen and her driver were both killed, the bride and groom critically injured. The drunk driver and two of his passengers died, too, and the wedding never took place.

The night our family got the phone call with this shocking news, I watched my parents, in the midst of their confusion and sorrow, turn to God in prayer. After flying to California the next day, I observed one scene after another that didn’t line up with my 12 year old world view. Watching my mom and aunt weep freely was bad enough, but I’d never seen a man cry. The low point came during the funeral when I looked down the church pew and saw my dad’s profile. Although he was facing forward not making a sound, tears were running down his face, and life seemed to fall apart.

Karen’s parents prayed countless prayers during those difficult days as they asked God to use her life and also her death for his purposes. I noticed that communication with God seemed to anchor unsteady adults.

When Karen’s senior English teacher gave her parents the last school assignment she’d turned in, my aunt and uncle were able to read her candid “Philosophy of Life.” In no-nonsense words, she detailed her love for Christ, quoting Philippians 1:21: “For to me, to live is Christ, to die is gain.” They were comforted to see, in her handwriting, these words: “I know that after death I will go to be with Him forever.”

That school assignment eventually became the centerpiece of a pamphlet entitled “Teenage Triumph” and was printed in 14 languages, distributed on every continent. Countless young people have come to Christ because of her testimony during the 51 years since her death. Eventually her story was included in a book entitled MORE THAN CONQUERORS along with celebrities like Chuck Colson, Corrie Ten Boom, C. S. Lewis and Billy Graham.

When Karen’s parents were in their eighties, a film company making a video about answered prayer asked if they’d be willing to share their daughter’s story again, as one of five examples on the hour-long documentary. Although the interview brought back some of their pain, joy over the wide-ranging impact of Karen’s life led them to say yes.

My uncle reiterated on tape how they’d dedicated Karen to the Lord when she was born, and so she’d really belonged to him all along. He said, “Her life has counted. Her death has counted. And her influence was greater after she died than before.”

I began to see that God hadn’t “killed Karen” in a random act of cruelty but had let it happen for specific, eternal purposes. And remembering that her parents had prayed for her life to be used by him, I began to glimpse the vast scope of prayer.

God takes us at our word. He hears every utterance and has the power to affect dramatic change. I’ve found that watching him work is one of life’s peak thrills. To me, forfeiting a chance to pray about something is to throw away an opportunity unequaled by any other.

“I am praying to you because I know you will answer, O God. Bend down and listen as I pray. Show me your unfailing love in wonderful ways. Satisfy the hunger of your treasured ones.” (Palm 17:6,7,14b)

It was my privilege today to return to the hospital where Nate underwent 14 radiation treatments, Rush University Medical Center in downtown Chicago. He and I first met Dr. Abrams on September 22 last fall, the day we learned of Nate’s fatal cancer. Dr. Abrams was on the team of medical experts who’d analyzed the data before meeting us at that gathering of experts, and who’d participated in gently giving us the shocking news.

Although we saw many new faces that day and shook hands with seven doctors, Dr. Abrams stood out as warm, concerned, sympathetic. He was the one to whom we were being turned over, the one who had already mapped out Nate’s radiation strategy. And he was the one who looked us both in the eyes and realized we didn’t have a clue what was happening on that fateful day. He told me later he decided at the end of that first meeting to “adopt” us both, wanting to be our soft place to fall, and he made good on that private commitment throughout those horrendous six weeks. He’s still making good on it, proven today by his invitation to have another conversation with me.

Both Nate and I liked Dr. Abrams immediately. He knew his stuff, but beyond that, he cared about us, our whole family, not just his cancer patient. Today as we talked, he asked about our children, wanting to know how they were coping with the loss of their father. He asked about me, too, and what I was doing with my time. When I told him it seems to be getting more difficult to live without Nate, he nodded with understanding.

I thanked the doctor for putting me together with the Rush media department, from which came the opportunity to post Nate’s story on the hospital “In Person” web page. And when I asked if he’d be willing to contribute a post to www.GettingThroughThis.com, he didn’t hesitate. “Just give me an assignment,” he said, with a smile.

Dr. Abrams fascinates me. We are different at our centers, one an Orthodox Jew, the other a Christian. I respect him highly and am astounded by his compassionate doctoring. We also have much common ground, beginning with Nate, who is the reason for our meeting in the first place. And we both find deep satisfaction in the relationships of our large families. We also share an interest in talking about the dying part of life and spent some time today discussing the universality of mortality.

Today I had a chance to “meet” his family as he proudly showed me a succession of photos from when his children were little and he was a young man, through to each child’s wedding and now several grandchildren. And although he willingly adopted us/me six months ago, Dr. Abrams and I are not so much parent and child anymore but friends. I am indeed grateful.

“Even in darkness light dawns for the upright, for the gracious and compassionate and righteous man.” (Psalm 112:4)