The choice

The moment came when I realised I had to respond.

"Come out."

Would Jesus heal Naomi? I had no doubt that he had the power to heal her, but was it his will? The image of the deceased child being wheeled out of the Shanghai ICU in a blue body bag was still vivid in my mind. I also remembered the girl who had lain next to Naomi in the Singapore ICU. Each day we would see her parents, anxious and exhausted, just like us. Then one morning her bed was empty. The sheets were neatly made, as if no one had ever slept there. A nurse told us the child had passed away. I still remember the wave of sadness that washed over me. Evidently, not every child was healed.

Jester had been healed. She had been terminally ill, and Jesus had healed her. Why did he heal some and not others? And when he healed, for what purpose?

When Jester prayed for Paulina, the words “This illness is not unto death” had come to mind. Why that verse? And why at that moment? Did it mean Naomi would recover? That she would not remain disabled? Or simply that her illness would not ultimately cause her death?

I looked up the words in my Bible and found them in chapter 11 of the Gospel of John, the story of Lazarus, a close friend of Jesus. When Lazarus fell gravely ill, his sisters, Martha and Mary, sent word to Jesus, expecting him to come at once. But when Jesus heard the news, he said:

“This illness is not unto death; it is for the glory of God, so that the Son of God may be glorified by means of it.” (John 11:4)

He then deliberately stayed away.

By the time he arrived, Lazarus had been dead and buried for four days.

The sisters met him with grief and disappointment. They were convinced that if he had come sooner, their brother would not have died. Jesus responded by telling them that he himself was the resurrection and the life—that whoever believed in him would live, even though they died.

Deeply moved, Jesus wept. He went to the tomb—a cave sealed with a stone—and told those present to take the stone away. Then he looked up and thanked his Father for hearing him, adding that he said this aloud so that those around him would understand he had been sent by the Father and might believe. And then he cried out: “Lazarus, come out!”

The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound, his face wrapped in cloth. Jesus said: “Unbind him, and let him go.”

Many who witnessed it believed.

I read that chapter again and again, trying to grasp it.

I could imagine how abandoned Lazarus and his sisters must have felt. They knew only Jesus could help. So why wasn’t he there when they needed him most? Didn’t he care? He had healed so many others, even from a distance. Why not Lazarus?

It wasn't that Jesus didn't know. He knew Lazarus was dying. Yet he did nothing. Even after Lazarus had died, he delayed.

It was strange.

Everywhere else, Jesus responded immediately to those who asked. But here, he had a different purpose. He never intended to just heal Lazarus. A miraculous healing would have been astonishing—but his aim was not mere amazement. It was the glory of God, and that people might believe that he was the Christ, the Son of God.

A healing could perhaps have been explained away. The resurrection of a man dead for four days could not.

What struck me most was that Jesus was deeply moved. He wept. Some said: “See how he loved him.” Others questioned why, if he loved him, he had not prevented his death.

Clearly, God allows suffering.

It was not God who caused Lazarus to die, but he did allow it. Not because he didn't care, but because he was working toward something greater—something they could not yet see. For their sake, and for the sake of many others who would come to believe.

My response

The story of Lazarus showed me how different God’s ways are from ours. The sisters wanted Jesus to act when and how they expected. But Jesus acted in a way that brought the greatest glory to God—and from their darkest moment, he brought about good.

All this time, I had wondered why an innocent six-year-old like Naomi had to suffer, and why her sister Sienna had to suffer alongside her, living under constant strain instead of the carefree life of a child.

The story of Lazarus gave me the beginning of an answer.

If someone so close to Jesus could suffer illness and even death, then suffering was not evidence of God’s absence. It was something not withheld even from those he loved—perhaps even entrusted to them.

It was still unbearably hard to see Naomi unable to speak, eat, drink, sit, or walk. But the story of Lazarus left me with a growing sense that suffering isn’t incompatible with being loved by God, and that it isn’t meaningless, but holds a greater good or purpose within it, even if it remains hidden.

In a way, Lazarus' story foreshadowed Jesus’ own suffering, death and resurrection, which would have an immeasurably greater purpose: the salvation of all mankind and the invitation to eternal life with God.

Perhaps our family’s suffering, too, would lead to something greater. Jesus had already drawn me to the greatest good of all: himself. Given where I had stood before, that alone felt like a miracle.

Then it struck me: Jesus, whom I had ignored my entire life, had also called me out of my cave.

From that moment on, I no longer wanted to walk miles behind him. I wanted to walk beside him. I began reading the other Gospels, eager to know him more, and came across these words:

"No one can come to me unless the Father who sent me draws him.” (John 6:44)

That strange sense of being somehow privileged returned—but now I began to understand it.

Later in the same Gospel, Jesus said:

"I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father, but by me.” (John 14:6)

I felt he was inviting me to make a choice: continue living life my way, or follow him.

And just as it is impossible to approach a crackling fire without feeling its warmth, I found it impossible not to feel the warmth of Christ’s love once I had drawn close.

I picked up Naomi’s book again. I flipped through its pages, pausing over the illustrations, until I reached the final page:

Copyright © Rigby, a division of Reed Educational and Professional Publishing Ltd.

Like the man in the story, I too had taken off my coat. I had lowered my defences and allowed the warmth of Jesus’ love to reach my heart. After everything we had lived through—and how it had changed me—I became convinced that we, too, would see the glory of God.

And in that moment, recognising that I had been given the grace to believe, I accepted Jesus' invitation.

With it came an urgent desire to be baptised with the Holy Spirit and to become, like Saint Rigby, a Roman Catholic.

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An unexpected guide →