I wonder, because that is not my reality.
I do trust God, I really do, but it is a trust that is won through enormous effort every time again. I keep figuring it should get easier, but it doesn't. The speed to which I set the treadmill has begun to feel easier. The weights I lift have begun to feel lighter. But every time again, my trust comes with struggle.
I want to trust easily. I think, Ok, I'm going to really trust God, and even as I say it, my heart quakes, because it feels like a challenge, like I'm drawing a line in the sand, or maybe he is, and that trust is going to be pushed.
And it is. The phone call at night.
I think, Ok, I kinda knew something was going to happen. I told God I was trusting him, and sure enough, he's testing me. But that's ok, because I know that he's good and I know that he is who he says he is, and he can do what he says he can do.
But the news we get is worse than we first thought.
Ok, really, God? Wasn't the first thing enough?
Parking fees and gas costs begin to add up and push and strain on an already strained bank account. The bills I had hoped to pay off just might not get paid off after all now. I'll cut here and scrimp there and make it work.
But then my car starts acting up. It starts acting up in exactly the way it acted up last time it cost me $500 to repair. Seriously? Seriously??
I want to trust God, I really do. I am trying to honour him in this, do the right thing, and one thing after another after another is going wrong. I feel like he's beating me up, that no matter how hard I try, it's never good enough. That thought drifts through my mind like a tendril of smoke, grey and caustic, but barely there, just out of grasp, floating on the edges of my mind.
I wave my hand and try to disperse the smoke. He's not beating me up. The Lord is not like that. He's good, and he loves me.
Yeah, it's easy enough to talk about love, isn't it. Not much to it when he doesn't show it. The smoke thickens a little, and it must be getting into my eyes, because they're smarting and I can't stop the tears that gather.
But he has shown it. He's shown it here, and there, and there, and there.
Oh, wow, yeah,that's good, especially when he could easily have prevented the whole thing from happening in the first place. He's emptying your bank account and then throwing you chump change, and you say that shows he's good. The pallor of the smoke is cutting off my vision, and my eyes are streaming.
No, I'm trusting him. I know he hears my prayers.
Like he heard them before, when you so desperately needed him and he wasn't there? Before I know it, I am surrounded by hell-smoke. I am choking and gagging on a lungful of fumes, and my trust hangs like a tattered rag.
Why? Why?? Why do I so easily and so quickly believe those lies that reek with the breath of death? I know they're not true.
But I fear they might be. It is the fear of a hundred years ago, another lifetime ago, the fear of a much younger me, begging God, pleading with God, crying out for God to act . . . but he didn't seem to hear, and she thought she wasn't allowed to cry. Even when it hurt. Even when she knew in a blinding millisecond of truth that half-dead isn't the same at all as all-the-way dead, that the dead bodies on TV don't look one bit like dead bodies; they look like living people pretending to be dead. And bodies lying in a coffin don't look alive and don't look "good". They look like dead people pretending to be alive.
But there is no pretending. There is no halfway. There is life. And death. And death, if not grieved, has a way of creating a wound of the heart which robs us of courage, of love, hope, and trust, of all that makes life good and glad and glorious. Without realising, it confirmed what I feared to be true while I was still too young in the faith to know better. You see? God doesn't hear. God doesn't care. Submitting something to God means losing it forever. And you just need to take it, without crying, without question,without grief. Just take it. Swallow it without a word. The lies rained like blows, and I cowered, silent, swallowing it without a word, arms raised over my head to protect myself from the bruises, and I stayed silent.
But, oh, how it hurt. Oh, how it hurt.
And because I never questioned, the lies never surfaced.
Because I never cried, there were no tears to cleanse the wound.
The hurt was hidden, but not healed.
I sometimes wonder what it would be like to face a trial in life with an unshakeable trust in God. It is not my reality at this moment, but I want it to be. I want to trust easily. When trials come, I want to be quick to fall into the arms of a Father I truly do know loves me, rather than hiding my hurt in fear.
The questions might be 20 years old, but I am asking them now. The tears might be 20 years too late, but they are surprisingly quick to surface. They will still do their work. I know my Father will welcome them, and will heal the hurt.
I know.
He is my Father.
He hears.
He cares.
And I trust him.
But I fear they might be. It is the fear of a hundred years ago, another lifetime ago, the fear of a much younger me, begging God, pleading with God, crying out for God to act . . . but he didn't seem to hear, and she thought she wasn't allowed to cry. Even when it hurt. Even when she knew in a blinding millisecond of truth that half-dead isn't the same at all as all-the-way dead, that the dead bodies on TV don't look one bit like dead bodies; they look like living people pretending to be dead. And bodies lying in a coffin don't look alive and don't look "good". They look like dead people pretending to be alive.
But there is no pretending. There is no halfway. There is life. And death. And death, if not grieved, has a way of creating a wound of the heart which robs us of courage, of love, hope, and trust, of all that makes life good and glad and glorious. Without realising, it confirmed what I feared to be true while I was still too young in the faith to know better. You see? God doesn't hear. God doesn't care. Submitting something to God means losing it forever. And you just need to take it, without crying, without question,without grief. Just take it. Swallow it without a word. The lies rained like blows, and I cowered, silent, swallowing it without a word, arms raised over my head to protect myself from the bruises, and I stayed silent.
But, oh, how it hurt. Oh, how it hurt.
And because I never questioned, the lies never surfaced.
Because I never cried, there were no tears to cleanse the wound.
The hurt was hidden, but not healed.
I sometimes wonder what it would be like to face a trial in life with an unshakeable trust in God. It is not my reality at this moment, but I want it to be. I want to trust easily. When trials come, I want to be quick to fall into the arms of a Father I truly do know loves me, rather than hiding my hurt in fear.
The questions might be 20 years old, but I am asking them now. The tears might be 20 years too late, but they are surprisingly quick to surface. They will still do their work. I know my Father will welcome them, and will heal the hurt.
I know.
He is my Father.
He hears.
He cares.
And I trust him.
No comments:
Post a Comment