The Pool of God’s Lovingkindness

An invitation to unexpected healing

This is a fictional piece I wrote last year while walking in loss and grief. This piece is based off of John 5 and the healing at the pool of Bethesda. It’s my own interpretation of putting myself in the Bible story and I hope it can resonate with you in some way—inviting you to notice the depth of scripture all the more.

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Photo by Nick Moore on Unsplash

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How long have I been sitting next to this pool?

I wonder to myself as the dawning sunlight streaks colors across the sky to welcome a new day. I barely see the colors that look like an angelic painting because of the walls surrounding me, the hoards of people that encompass me—because my eyes are looking at the pool.

The pool that hasn’t healed me yet. 

The pool that is the hope of all the pain around and in me.

What has brought me to this pool? I sigh to myself. My own pain and deep suffering—that is what has brought me here and left me to what feels like rotting in the dawning morning hours.

Day after day, it has felt the same.

Then one day, another normal and ordinary day, I notice the wind shifts a little and the shadows of the sunrise seem different. I can’t seem to put a finger on it—but something is different. Could it be a new hope?

A man comes through the entrance—a seemingly ordinary man, but one I will find out the world was not worthy to have traverse its ground. He sees another like me, another who has been weighed down by pain and brokenness—who feels all hope is lost. I watch as the man walks over to my neighbor and friend who has suffered. My ears strain to hear what words are being whispered between them—what seem to be quiet words penetrating to the depths of a grieving heart. 

Then I see it. 

Lame legs that have been twisted and limp—moving, like a fawn trying to stand.

Healing.

Muscles change instantly and supporting weight they have never been able to bear. 

Awe. 

I see what was lifeless in my neighbor for so many years have life breathed back into it and move. 

I’m mesmerized in the moment—when heaven and earth meet by this pool of loving kindness. 

But what about me? I hold my breath. Am I next?

I wonder and anxiously hope in my heart. Will I also soon be throwing off my former pain and sorrow, to be running the streets—a walking, living miracle? My neighbor leaves. Still fumbling around on his newly materialized limbs. What was dead is now living. 

But I’m still here. 

I look at this healer, a man I overhear whose name is Jesus, starting to walk away—the abandonment in me rises. The fear that I’ll be passed over again and again swells in my throat. My awe in the unbelievable happening before my eyes, suddenly takes the form of panic.

But what about me? I whisper a desperate cry—aloud or in my heart I do not know.

He stops. The miracle worker, this teacher that just performed the impossible in front of my eyes, slowly turns—as if He heard the deep cries of my heart, and slowly comes over to me. I immediately feel ashamed for wondering, doubting, asking—for voicing my question and secretly planting the small seed of resentment in my heart. 

He comes so close and sits down next to me—my eyes wide in amazement and my heart skipping beats. My shame melts away with the deep look of his eyes—I’m immediately filled with warmth and a surge of love that overwhelms my empty soul. A feeling I’ve never experienced before washes over me. Is this what it’s like to feel known?

I bravely look at His face, that hasn’t spoken a word, yet has shared more than I’ve ever known and boldly ask, “When will it be my turn?” I immediately shrink back after asking, wondering if He will find me ungrateful for what my human eyes have just witnessed.

His eyes keep my gaze, never moving or leaving my tear-filled ones. I blink once and the tears start flowing—holding so much pain and suffering. He continues to hold my gaze, the silence is welcoming and calm, holding no room for awkwardness or shame. 

His eyes then leave mine for a second to nod towards my formerly crippled neighbor that has now left and is probably running through the streets—his miracle on full display.

“This is not your story,” He responds ever so tenderly. I’m immediately disheartened.

“But why? I’ve seen what you can do—you can heal me. You can make this (as I gesture to my human, broken life) all better. You will receive all the glory.” 

He meets my eyes with another smile, gently saying again, “I know, but this is not your story.”

He leaves my gaze again and looks around at the crowds of people around me—the sick, blind, lame, mute, and deaf. There are those that have been waiting for years upon years for a miracle and those that just arrived from long journeys last week for the chance to be healed. I wonder what they’d do if they knew the ultimate Healer was in their midst.

The Healer is right here, I think. I want to scream it to them all. 

Jesus is still looking out over the crowds around us, who seem blinded to the life-changing miracle that just took place. It feels as if we’re in our own little corner of the world talking about a treasure that was just discovered, but no one knows about yet.

He sighs, as if holding the heavy pain of those surrounding him, and turns again towards me, “I want you to tell them about what you’ve seen.”

I catch my breath. Why me? I think to myself. 

“But wouldn’t it be better to show them how a miracle could happen, so they can see your healing powers?” I ask, desperately longing for my story to be different. Secretly hoping I’d be the one walking around, life changed, legs healed—a walking testimony of God’s power. 

He states again, even more gently, “I want you to tell them about what you’ve seen. They don’t need someone who has been outwardly healed to believe. They need someone who is still in pain, yet believes in healing amidst the suffering.” 

I take a long inhale and exhale. Believing amidst the suffering. Believing amidst the pain. That feels so hard, I think to myself. “I just want my story to look different,” I courageously say out loud, wanting my earthly circumstances to bring reprieve. 

“You are exactly who I want to tell this story,” He says to me, getting closer to hold my gaze even more steady. 

My eyes leave His and I look around at the crows of people around me. The pain in my heart is heavy, yet there is also a twinge of lightness—a peace. Maybe Jesus will do something great with my pain? I think to myself. Maybe all is not lost. The hiddenness of my suffering is seen and known, so much so that He wants to use me to tell His story. 

“Okay.” The words that come out of my mouth surprise even myself as I look back up into the Healer’s eyes. 

“If this is what you are asking of me, I’m going to trust that you are writing a bigger story than what my eyes are seeing. What seems like a broken mistake to the world—I will trust that you are weaving and working a plan for your goodness and love to shine through. I will share what I have seen. I will tell them of your love. I will point them back to you. I will do all of this as I sit in my own deep suffering on this earth—knowing that all will be whole one day.”

He leans in and gives me the deepest and longest hug I’ll ever experience on this earth. 

I am held. 

I am loved. 

I am never forgotten. 

I am deeply seen. 

This is my story, this is my song—praising my Savior all the day long.¹ 

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1. This version from CAIN is one of my favorite renditions of Blessed Assurance!