2 Kings 4

She hadn’t asked Elisha for a son. Perhaps it had been one of her lifetime prayers… and too afraid, then, to hope. Hope--a razorblade that scores deeply by its sheer non-existence. Lighter than air, but heavier than the sky. She had not wanted to ask for a son.

But—the God of the prophet, that God of the other nation, Israel, had given her a son.

And

Then.

Two small words. Small words that can contain more thunder and rain than a cumulus thundercloud, dark foreboding. Two words that can change a life as sharp and quick as a lightning bolt.

And

Then

Her

Son

Died.

A pleasant day out with his father. Small headache. Crisis. In her arms, he breathed her last.

And she answered, "All is well.... All is well.” Was she lying? Covering up? Didn’t want to share the burden of her heart with anyone who might lightly brush over it? Or did she know enough of this God of Israel to know he was a life-giving God:

The God who gave Sarah (and her) life out of a barren womb?

Who gave life to the promised son, almost sacrificed?

The God who gave life to a mistreated, foreign slave woman and her child outside of the covenant?

The God who gave life to Rebekah’s barren womb?

Who gave life to Jacob when he thought he would forfeit his life by Esau’s hand?

The God who restored Joseph, considered dead, to his father?

The God who gave life to a nation of slaves, setting them forth as conquerors of Jericho and mighty kings?

The God who gave life to a prostitute and unclean woman of Jericho?

Did she dare to hope against hope in this life-giving God? When all circumstances thundered despair to each beat of her breaking heart?

And

Life

From

Death.

Victory.

Hope. We may be fearful to hope. The facts may beat like hail, sting like sleet, be as constant as the storm. But we have seen the ultimate victory, Christ’s defeating of death. We dare to hope. Hope yet, o my soul, hope yet. Because in him, hope is certain, more certain than what I see, touch, feel. All is well. All is well.