When You Can’t Fix It

I’ve never torn a hamstring sprinting toward an Olympic medal, but I have absolutely run onto a field where I had no business being, ignoring everyone telling me to stop, because my kid needed me. Most of us have. We just don’t get a slow-motion replay and a stadium full of people applauding when we do it.

This past Sunday we looked at a dad in Luke 8 named Jairus, and the more time I spent with his story this week, the more I realized he’s not really a Bible character to me anymore. He’s every parent I know. Including me.

Here’s what you need to know about Jairus: he wasn’t some random guy off the street. He ran the synagogue. Organized the services, handled the building, decided who read Scripture and who didn’t — think chairman of the board, not pastor, but still somebody. Somebody with a reputation. Somebody people in town nodded to and said, “that’s Jairus,” with a little respect in their voice.

And his twelve-year-old daughter was dying.

We don’t even get her name. She’s just “Jairus’ daughter” the whole way through. But I think about her watching her dad — wondering, the way kids do, whether he’s actually got it together or whether he’s just really good at looking like he does. Every dad I know has wondered if his kids see through him. Turns out, in the most important moment of his life, Jairus didn’t need to look like he had it together. He just needed to be desperate enough to ask for help.

That’s the first thing that gets me about this story. Jairus didn’t send his wife. Didn’t send a servant. Didn’t have an assistant make the call. He went himself, in public, and fell at Jesus’ feet. A man with a title and a reputation, face down in the dirt in front of everybody.

I grew up hearing my dad say things like “because I said so” and “what part of no don’t you understand” — and if you grew up with a dad like that, you know exactly which lines I mean, you’re probably nodding right now. But the greatest thing my father ever gave me wasn’t a rule or a lecture. It was faith. He didn’t just provide for our family — he pointed us toward Jesus. And I think that’s the real test for any of us who love somebody: are we just managing their life, or are we actually leading them toward Christ?

Because here’s the hard truth I keep coming back to — our country doesn’t need more successful parents. We need more faithful ones. Those aren’t the same thing, and I think a lot of us, myself included, have spent more energy on the first than the second.

So Jairus asks Jesus to come to his house. And honestly? That’s still the prayer, isn’t it. Not “fix this for me from a distance,” but “come into my home.” Lead the prayers at the table instead of nodding while the kids say grace. Open the Word instead of just owning a Bible that sits on a shelf. Values get caught more than they get taught — your kids are watching what you actually do, not what you post about doing.

Then the story takes a gut-punch turn. While Jesus is still walking toward the house, word comes: she’s already dead. Don’t bother the teacher anymore.

I’ve sat with families in that exact moment — when the news lands and it’s worse than your worst fear — and I can tell you, “just believe” sounds almost cruel to say to someone whose world just ended. But that’s exactly what Jesus says to Jairus. Not before the bad news. After.

Here’s what I think Jairus had figured out by that point: his money couldn’t fix this. His position couldn’t fix this. All he had left was the option to hand his daughter over to Jesus completely. And isn’t that where most of us end up eventually? You can’t make every decision for your kid forever. You can’t shield them from every hard thing. At some point, love means open hands instead of clenched fists — trusting that God loves the people you love even more than you do, hard as that is to actually believe some days.

And then — she’s not dead, He says. Just asleep. The mourners straight up laugh at Him. I love that detail, honestly, because it means even the people standing in the house had already given up. The funeral had basically started. But Jesus took her hand, said a few words, and she got up and started walking around like nothing happened. And then — this is my favorite line in the whole passage — Jesus says, “Give her something to eat.” Not some big theological pronouncement. Just, feed the kid, she’s probably starving. He cares about souls and sandwiches. That’s who He is.

I keep thinking about that footage of Derek Redmond at the ’92 Olympics, hamstring torn, hobbling down the track in agony, and his dad busting through security to half-carry him to the finish line. The crowd lost it. Everybody stands up for a dad who runs onto the field for his kid.

But that’s not even the whole point of the story. The whole point is that you have a Father who runs onto the field too. When you fall apart, He doesn’t wait for an invitation. He comes running. And when you’ve got nothing left to offer Him but an open hand and a broken heart — that’s actually more than enough.