Andi Meade

The question for any man or woman of God is not, “Will I feel fears and anxieties in this fallen, dangerous, evil world?” For God does not promise an emotional health and wealth gospel of freedom from fearful feelings. The questions are, “When I feel afraid, will I entrust myself, including my emotions, to God, even if my feelings don’t vanish?” “While I still am experiencing intense fears, will I entrust myself to God to find His strength to lovingly protect others?”

Beware of the “emotional prosperity gospel”—the idea that spiritual maturity means you no longer wrestle with sadness, anxiety, or trauma. True maturity isn’t the absence of struggle, but learning to trust God through it.

My brother is flying to the Philippines right now where our dad is in the hospital. Internal bleeding and organ failure. We are finally at the end. 5 years ago, when he was diagnosed with alcohol induced liver failure, they said he had weeks to live—maybe a year or 2 if he did everything right. He did everything wrong. He was drunk the whole time. There were times my brother and I said to each other “how the heck is he still alive?” I typically have a rule that I won’t talk to him when he’s drunk, which means we don’t talk. But these last few months I’ve taken his calls. He’s drunk, and hallucinating from the ammonia in his system from liver failure. His sweet, current wife there in the Philippines who maybe is 30 years old now has been taking good care of him. My dad had a traumatizing childhood. I don’t think it excuses anything but it does explain a lot. It gives me compassion and perspective. He is a baptized believer who is the very definition of being “poor in spirit.” I believe God is with the mentally unwell. God’s church protected me from him—removed our family from him when I was 5, and supported us as we got on our feet. Things played out as they were supposed to play out. When he’s been calling me lately, he seems to be trying to get at the question: will you mourn me? Will I be missed? Dad, I’ve been mourning you since I was 5. I won’t stop now. Weeks spent with you as a child were glimpses of heaven. I’ll treasure every sober day with you when you were the best dad. Jesus has forgiven you, and I agree with his forgiveness. He forgives, and he heals, and you’re about to see the fullness of that.