The Before and the After

About two years ago, my mom went in for what they said would be a routine surgery. It wasn’t. The instruments were contaminated. She got an infection in her brain, and it tore through her like fire through dry grass. Then came the strokes, one after another, until the woman we loved was trapped inside her own body.

What followed was three months of war. The hospital tried to wash its hands of her. Lawyers circled. Threats were made. At one point, they said they’d send her home, paralyzed, incontinent, barely able to speak, and leave her there alone. I told them that wasn’t happening. After weeks of standoffs and sleepless nights, we got her released to a nursing home close enough that we could be there every day.

Emily or I sat with her four to eight hours a day, except Sundays. All the while, we still had kids to teach, work to do, a church to lead. The final bill came to nearly a million dollars, most of it wiped away when she died a few weeks after leaving the ICU. But the real cost couldn’t be tallied. My mom was Emily’s best friend. She was the grandmother who showed up. She was my biggest fan, though I didn’t see it clearly until she was gone.

Some events come and split your life clean in two: the before and the after. This was one of them.

Trouble comes out of nowhere. A wreck on the highway. A storm that tears your roof off. A surgeon’s mistake. Life flips upside down, and you find out what you’re really made of. You’ll learn whether suffering will pull you and your wife apart or bind you together. Whether you’ll run to prayer or to the bottle. Whether you’ll still show up for Sunday worship when the sky has fallen.

In those moments, every Christian faces the same question: when the world caves in, will you still believe? Will you remember that the gospel is good news because the world is full of bad news? Will you admit that beneath your strength runs a current of weakness that only grace can hold?

I hate the word, but there’s no better one for it: we were traumatized. Hollowed out. For a long time, I wondered if we’d ever be normal again. Now we’re finding a new kind of normal. Mending what fell apart. Tightening up our parenting. Restoring our margin. The thick fog of grief and confusion is lifting.

Without good friends, the kind with skin on, and a church that actually acts like one, we would’ve gone under. Life’s too heavy to carry alone.

So do your future self a favor. Build godly habits now. Pray daily. Memorize Scripture. Make public worship a non-negotiable. Plant yourself in a church and grow real friendships, the kind that take years to form and can survive fire. Because the kingdom is breaking in, but this world is still fallen. And every one of us will walk through the valley of tears before we reach the gates of heaven.

Remember what James says:

“Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.”

In each storm, He is perfecting you—and making you ready for a land without tears or grief.