BY ANDY NASH

very now and then I feel my outlook come pure and clear-as though I've had spiritual laser surgery. This tends to happen when my heart is breaking.

One Tuesday last winter I came home from the college where I teach en route to the university where I study. I would spend an hour with Cindy and the girls-around the lunch table, but first on the living room floor, their primary world.

Morgan, our 15-month-old, crawled in proud circles. She can walk, but she prefers to crawl. She can also cuddle, but like her dad she likes to have a little time alone. She'll crawl into her bedroom and shut the door and happily emerge an hour later (yes, we check on her).

Ally, on the other hand, is as sociable a 3-year-old as you'll find. She doesn't want to play alone; she wants to play with someone-namely the someone who's trying to pay bills. In this spirit, her spirit, she grabbed our big dog picture book and climbed onto my lap.

"Are you warm today?" I asked, slipping my hand to her forehead. Sporadically, over several weeks, she'd had a slight fever-and just hadn't been herself.

"No," she said, pulling away. "Let's find the pug."

We had been dog searching for several weeks, and while Cindy remained formidable, I had convinced Ally that a pug was the perfect dog for us. (I also wanted a pug so that we could name it Doug.) (It would sleep on the rug.) (We'd give it a hug.)

We found the pug and read all about it, and then Ally got up and trotted into the kitchen. As I placed the book on the end table I heard Cindy's urgent voice.

"Ally, what's wrong? Why did you do that? Why did you do that?" "What happened?" I said.

"She almost fell," said Cindy. "She didn't trip or anything. She just . . . oh, Ally! What's wrong?"

She had done it again. Pushing off the floor, I walked around the corner to find Cindy holding Ally, rocking her left and right. "I don't know what happened," said Cindy. "She just fell for no reason. It was like she fainted."

"Mommy, I want to watch you cook," said Ally, apparently oblivious.

A few quiet seconds passed. "Well, you're not standing near the stove," answered Cindy. "Here, just stand on this chair beside me." While she stirred, Cindy kept one hand on Ally's left shoulder. For a few more seconds everything was normal again. But as I approached from behind Ally, I noticed Cindy's face drop. "Oh, there she goes again," she said.

Everything slowed. Ally fell straight back-tried to fall straight back-over the chair, her arms just hanging, her eyes so empty. Cindy grabbed her, I grabbed her, and seconds later we were grabbing Morgan.

"Put Ally in the van," said Cindy, her eyes filling.

"What are we doing?" asked Ally, whose blackout had lasted only a moment.

"We're going to see Cathy," I said.

Cathy is the girls' pediatrician, and we had never seen her more serious. "Tell me what happened," she said.

We told her what happened-and then we told her what had been happening: Ally's fevers, her strange appetite, her lethargy. "She's been begging to take naps. And she's been thirsty at bedtime," I said.

"Also this morning," said Cindy, "she was real sensitive to sunlight. I had to close the shades." Ally sat calmly in my arms. I didn't want her to faint again there in the office. But in a way I did. I wanted to know. I hate not knowing.

Diabetes-or What?
Cathy asked about diabetes in the family. Yes, we both had grandparents with it. I mentioned that I gave Ally some bread and honey on the way out the door. "If it's diabetes," I asked, "could that be why she's not fainting now?"

"It's possible," said Cathy. The rest of the day was filled with tests; we'd have the results the next day. By bedtime Ally hadn't fainted anymore, but she was extremely agitated. After helping her with her pajamas, I cradled her face. "Sweetheart," I said very seriously, "you're sleeping with us tonight. You can't sleep in your bed. You have to sleep with us."

She grinned big. She loves to be surprised. I set her in bed between Cindy and me. Immediately she leaned to my ear and whispered, "Daddy, can I have a drink? I'm so thirsty."

I reached for her little purple monkey thermos on the nightstand. She drank, then handed back the thermos. Ten seconds later she leaned over again. "Daddy, I'm so thirsty."

Again and again she leaned and whispered the same request. With each "Daddy, I'm so thirsty" I felt my throat tighten. Poor kid, I thought. This is worse than I realized. How many nights has she been this thirsty without our even knowing?

Finally she stopped asking, and I slipped out of bed and went to the living room. Cindy had gone to the library and checked out a book on childhood diseases, and I began tracing Ally's symptoms. Each one pointed to different possibilities, but every one fit diabetes. Oh, sweetie. I flipped off the light and sat there in the dark.

The next morning at work I became an authority on diabetes-especially in children. "Type 1 diabetes is one of the most common chronic diseases in children," said www.diabetes.org. "Nearly one child out of every 600 develops it. . . . Although diabetes cannot be cured, it can be treated. With family support, daily care, and treatment, your child with diabetes can lead a healthy, active, and fun-filled life."

OK, I thought. We can handle this. But my reading got harder. "Children of all ages have a hard time understanding how and why illness happens. They may think that they caused diabetes. . . . Preschoolers who are frightened by fingersticks and insulin shots may try to avoid or delay them. It can help to say: 'Yes, I know it hurts' and 'You're being very brave.' Stickers and stars can help to encourage a child to have a fingerstick or a shot."

My eyes moved to a section on parents. "Many parents feel dazed, shocked, afraid, or guilty." Yes, yes, yes, and yes, I thought, trying to accept our new life.

At 10:00 a.m. Cathy called. To that point, all of Ally's tests showed regular blood sugar levels. Could she come in the next morning for more tests before breakfast?

Sure, I said, suddenly feeling hopeful. I called home and relayed the news to Cindy. "Oh, that's good," she said. "I don't think she has diabetes anyway."

"You don't?" I asked, incredulous. "Then how come she kept asking for a drink last night? That's one of the main symptoms."

"Oh, that," said Cindy. "I forgot to tell you. After you left the room, I asked Ally if she was really thirsty or if she was just saying she was thirsty because we had talked about it at Cathy's. She told me it was because of Cathy."

"And you didn't tell me?" I said.

While I wasn't delighted with our little breach in communication, I felt even more upbeat about Ally's prognosis. Sure enough, the next morning's blood test hit the target. "We can pretty much rule out diabetes," said Cathy. "Let's see what the EKG and EEG tell us."

The other tests, administered over several days, were difficult. (It isn't easy to convince a 3-year-old to hyperventilate, then fall asleep-all with three dozen wires taped to her head.) But the results were wonderful: Ally's heart and brain were fine. After the final "everything looks normal"-apparently she just had a bad virus-the four of us trotted out of the hospital and piled into the van, and Ally picked up the refrain from "Frosty the Snowman," her favorite song that month. "'But he waved goodbye, saying "Don't you cry; I'll be back again some day."'"

She had sung these same words after our first rushed visit to Cathy. At the time I could barely keep from breaking down. But now everything was different, bright, peaceful. My eyes met Cindy's; our hearts were filled with gratitude.

The Person I Was
I felt thrilled, of course, that my daughter was well. No insulin shots, no seizure activity-she was well. Yet in another sense I felt strangely afraid-afraid that as our life returned to normal, I'd return to normal. The fact was, I had loved the father, the person, I'd been that week of sorrow.

First, I loved my perspective. For one week, anyway, I saw life clearly. It didn't matter that we couldn't get ahead financially, that I wasn't achieving more professionally, that the Vikings' star running back had unexpectedly retired. All that mattered was my little girl's happiness. During those days I watched her closely, noticing things I usually
didn't-her pretty eyelashes, her little skip. And I watched my other two girls, Cindy and Morgan. How completely precious they all were; how completely rich I was. Ten years ago I had dreamed of a family like this. God, I kept praying, please preserve the life we have. Please forgive me for not appreciating it more.

My perspective that week, of course, was perfectly common. Watch anyone associated with sorrow, with suffering. They know what matters-and what doesn't. Adversity often brings out the best in people.

Second, I loved my behavior. Prior to that week I had been feeling unsettled, anxious to improve our lives. In particular, I was on a big "natural entertainment" kick; I wanted a pet so the girls wouldn't want to watch their videos so much-oh, and also a lake home. Acceptable wishes, in themselves-a father wanting good things for his children-but I'd spend so much time scouring the newspaper in hopes of bettering our future that I'd often neglect our present.

Recently my friend Chris Blake gave me a book, The Life You've Always Wanted, by John Ortberg. Among other things, Ortberg talks about "waiting to live" versus "living." A father of young children himself, Ortberg describes rushing to get his three children bathed and put to bed one evening when his towel-wearing daughter begins prancing around the living room singing "It's a Dee Dah Day."

"'Mallory,' I told her, 'stop with the dee dah day stuff and get over here so I can dry you off. Hurry.' Then she asked a profound question: 'Why?' I had no answer. I had nowhere to go, nothing to do. . . . I was just so used to hurrying, so preoccupied with my own little agenda, so trapped in this rut of moving from one task to another, that here was life, here was joy, here was an invitation to dance right in front of me-and I was missing it."¹

Needless to say, the story hit me hard. Even though I was always around the girls, I was still missing out on them. In my quest to (eventually) bring joy to them, I had often bypassed the joy they had for me.

For one week, though, I had embraced every single ounce of their joy. I'd come home from work and swing them into my arms and ask, "What would you like to do?" And Ally would say, "Let's play Chutes and Ladders." And though I'd feel my eyes glaze over, as usual, I played anyway.

Third, I loved my passions. As I read about children and diabetes, I was ready to champion the cause. Help needed at diabetic summer camps? Count me in. Carefully placed articles in magazines and newspapers? Warming up my keyboard. As the father of a diabetic 3-year-old (or so I thought), I was ready to do whatever it took to inform the world-and maybe accelerate a cure.

Same old story. We tend to champion the causes that affect us. Michael J. Fox and Parkinson's. Christopher Reeve and spinal cords. Katie Couric and colon cancer. (Of course, in Couric's case, it was her husband who suffered-and died-from the cancer. And to her credit, Couric championed testing even after she herself had nothing to gain.) How refreshing it would be to champion a cause that didn't directly affect us.

Business as Usual
Within weeks of Ally's fainting episode I felt myself slipping back to normal.

My perspective returned to normal. Sure, I appreciated my family . . . but I'd also appreciate a bigger paycheck (why should Cindy have to work?), a couple career breaks (time's running out), and a blue-chip running back (preferably from the Rams).

My behavior returned to normal. Within days I resumed scouring the newspaper for things that would bring my girls happiness. We ended up getting a puppy-not a pug, but a cute little spaniel. The girls liked him but hardly acted as if they needed him; plus, we had allergy issues. Two weeks later we sold him to a home that fit him better.

My passions returned to normal. I hadn't once logged back on to the diabetes Web site. Didn't affect my kid anymore-why should I bother?
Transformation-When?

Concurrent with this whole experience, Cindy and I were part of a Wednesday-night study group. Our group of five couples had been working through the book of Acts. Among the giant themes in Acts, our commentary told us, is the radical transformation of Jesus' followers. These people are simply not the same people we find in the Gospels-and, for that matter, the early verses of Acts.

But when do these people change? When does the transformation occur? It wasn't, we discovered, immediately after the Crucifixion and Resurrection. Sure, they're glad that Jesus is alive-that, hey, He really is the Messiah after all. But these humans are still obsessed with human things: competing with each other and ruling the world. Consider these post-Resurrection passages-one on a beach, the other in Jerusalem:

"Peter turned and saw that the disciple whom Jesus loved was following them. . . . When Peter saw him, he asked, 'Lord, what about him?' Jesus answered, 'If I want him to remain alive until I return, what is that to you?'" (John 21:20-22, NIV).

"So when they met together, they asked him, 'Lord, are you at this time going to restore the kingdom to Israel?' He said to them: 'It is not for you to know the times or dates the Father has set by his own authority. But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you'" (Acts 1:6-8, NIV).

"When the Holy Spirit comes." Previously Jesus had called the Holy Spirit a "comforter" (see John 14:16). But logically, for a comforter to function, someone must first need comforting. The disciples clearly didn't feel the need for comfort, for the Holy Spirit, when Jesus was still around. They were as spastic as ever. So when were they changed?

"After he said this, he was taken up before their very eyes, and a cloud hid him from their sight. They were looking intently up into the sky as he was going" (Acts 1:9, 10, NIV).

Here was our answer. Not until Jesus left did they feel the need for a comforter. Together they walked back to Jerusalem and "joined together constantly in prayer" (verse 14, NIV). And thus begins the transformation: broken, sorrowful, empty of themselves, they are finally able to be filled with power.

"Putting away all differences, all desire for the supremacy, they came close together in Christian fellowship. They drew nearer and nearer to God.
. . . These days of preparation were days of deep heart searching. The disciples felt their spiritual need and cried to the Lord for the holy unction that was to fit them for the work of soul saving."²

Sorrow had changed them.

Their perspective changed. Suddenly they saw everyone around them as precious but fatally sick people: people staggering under the weight of sin.

Their behavior changed. No longer were they waiting to live. They were living. They weren't continually trying to figure out the unknown. Rather, they simply acted on the known. "Go and teach," Jesus had told them. And they did-as fast as they could.

Their passions changed. Never again would they feel unconnected to anyone; suddenly they had a vested interest in everyone-Jews and Gentiles alike. They were all family, brothers and sisters, citizens of the kingdom. By delighting themselves in the Lord, He gave them the desires of their heart (see Ps. 37:4)- many of which they had never felt before.

The Role of Sorrow
Among those whose lives were transformed was Jesus' own half brother James. "My brothers and sisters," he would later write, "whenever you face trials of any kind, consider it nothing but joy, because you know that the testing of your faith produces endurance; and let endurance have its full effect, so that you may be mature and complete, lacking in nothing" (James 1:2-4, NRSV).

James discovered what people still reluctantly discover today-that the factor most formative in spiritual growth is a time of suffering and pain. Of course, suffering and pain often result not in increased dependency on God, but in declared independency from God. This can happen particularly to people who reject the existence of Satan (the originator of suffering and pain) and who therefore trace all sorrow to heaven, asking, "Why would I even want a God like You?"

Surely most sorrow is nothing but the empty ache of a sin-plagued world. Yet it would be simply unbiblical to say that God Himself never uses suffering and pain for a greater good. For example, the word "test" in the Old Testament is used only in reference to the people of faith, never to the ungodly.³ That trend continues into the New Testament, into the lives of such people as Paul, who wrote of a mysterious ailment that afflicted him (2 Cor. 12:7-10).

Why would the God who didn't even invent suffering occasionally choose to afflict His own people with it? We don't know. Perhaps, in a sort of cosmic vaccination, He must inject a little poison in order to stave off a larger dose. But this is only conjecture. All we do know is that, for whatever reason, suffering is part of our lives-and that, at times, it improves our lives. "Ironically," comments Ortberg, "the role of suffering is one of the most neglected issues in spiritual growth, because we do not arrange for it to happen as we might Bible study or prayer."4

Back to Reality
While I take some comfort in "understanding" the dynamics of our big world, I still find myself wondering about my little one.

First, what if Ally really did have diabetes-or a brain problem or a heart problem? It's all very easy to get philosophical-to tell everyone why they should rejoice in their trials-when my own trial is over. If I had to draw my daughter's blood twice a day, would I become even more "spiritual"? Or would I get really angry at God, to the point of severing my faith, that a 3-year-old has to hurt: Is . . . this . . . really . . . necessary?

Second, what happens when I feel my life settling again? Should I wonder whether God's going to send more sorrow-even at the expense of the innocent around me-until I get back on track?

Third.
Fourth.
Fifth.

When I dwell on the questions, I feel uncertain, afraid. And I know I can't function like this. So I'm left to dwell on a promise: that I won't be given something I can't handle. Whether a sorrow comes from God or not (and who can distinguish between the two?), I'm apparently capable of handling it, of giving up on neither life nor faith. In the meantime Morgan bangs her tray, and Ally climbs into her booster chair. OK, let's say the blessing.

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¹ John Ortberg, The Life You've Always Wanted (Zondervan, Willow Creek Resources, 1997), p. 64.
² Ellen G. White, The Acts of the Apostles (Pacific Press, 1911), p. 37.
³ Ortberg, p. 208. Based on a survey of Christians.

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Andy Nash is an assistant professor of English at Union College, in Lincoln, Nebraska.