Fighting the Break of Dawn

"Save tonight

and fight the break of dawn.

Come tomorrow,

tomorrow I'll be gone."

--Eagle Eye Cherry

"I read your article," Dad told me over the phone this morning, his Wednesday night, referring to my recent publication on Examiner.com. I had newly applied to be a layman reporter with the organization and just this week began producing material for the site. "Your grandma read it, too. It felt like I was there--and now I want to go to that cell phone store. I don't know about your other two, because I don't remember them."

As I started to recount what I had written about this past week, he stopped me. "But that's not what I want to talk about." There was pressing news about the family that just couldn't wait until morning.

Grandpa had been put back in the hospital two weeks ago when his cancer resurfaced and was now in ICU, Dad informed me. Dad himself had been there with the family for some time--and would stay all night if need be. "Your grandfather is very weak," he said gravely. "The doctor came in just a few moments ago and informed us of his condition. Grandma said we needed to give Grandpa every chance we could and wants to keep him on the breathing machine; the doctor said he'd do what she asked."

It was the first time I had heard the words breathing machine and Grandpa in such a weighty context. Surely that didn't mean the machine? Further along in the conversation, gulping back my tears I braved the question. "What do you want me to do, Dad, if something happens?"

It wouldn't do any good in the end, he noted, my coming home. "We know that you care about us," he replied tenderly, "but it's a very long trip. You have made friends there--get hugs from them. People in South Korea would suffer [if you left] because you still have work to do."

Informed of the new turn of events, we said our goodbyes and I left for school--but it was all I could do to focus on my students today. At random moments throughout, I couldn't help but dwelling on my grandfather's news and at one point I found myself nearly in tears as I was explaining what the phrase "bid farewell" meant. Even now my heart breaks as I sit on my ondol-heated flooring tonight, wishing with all my heart I were there with my family.

I read something this morning which gives me great comfort in the midst of the struggle. In Psalm 91, the LORD promises His faithfulness and protection to his servants. Part of verse fifteen reads in Spanish, "Estaré con él en momentos de angustia"--which in English says that He will be with us during our utter grief and pain. In this season of utmost sorrow for my family, I know He will comfort those who mourn.

"Jen, I am sure your spirit is with [your family] right now, though your flesh is not," my friend Young Hee messaged me tonight through Skype.

"My spirit can't be anywhere but my body right now," I quickly replied. "But the Spirit of Jesus hovers over them like a gentle, powerful father. And He has not left them orphans--He WILL COME to them in their anguish."

Yes, LORD, and Amen!