(In my next several posts, I hope to respond to your sweet questions to my post for you. They may not be direct answers, but I pray they touch your heart as you seek to know Jesus more in the pain. For those of you who shared trials and hurt, thank you, thank you–this one is for you. Blessings on you. Also, I apologize for the funky posting schedule lately–I’m working around my two week on-campus grad school schedule:))
Sometimes my answer is so utterly simple.
I don’t know.
As pure and honest as that.
Because I don’t.
And my heart breaks and I weep, and I grieve alongside you.
And I don’t know why.
The pain. The heartbreak. The ache. The gut-wrenching hurt.
It can be horrific. And appalling. And unthinkable.
The road God sovereignly ordains many of His children walk down.
And so, sometimes, my answer is frank and simple: I don’t know. Why. Why He chose that you, my sweet, sweet friend, walk through that of all things. That.
And that answer.
It’s finite. And small-scope. And it’s little dot on big white board talk.
But that answer, there is something beautiful innate in that answer. That answer. It’s fragile, it’s dependent. It’s reliant. And it’s intricately woven into the distinct human knowledge that there is a why.
That there is something more. Something bigger.
That there’s sovereignty, and purpose. That there’s something greater at work, something more than us—than you, than me.
That there is Someone or something orchestrating and majestically and masterfully penning each word, each moment, each note. Perfectly phrased, perfectly tuned.
Because, why, at its most basic element, is a question of someone or something. Because that question, it boils over from the deepest part of our souls, the part that knows, knows, there is a God.
A God that knows. A God that sees. A God that hears. A God that acts.
Oh, sometimes that question, it’s David.
There are times, times I feel his thoughts intimately.
His utterly prostate, organically human, unreservedly dependent cries.
How long, O Lord?
Why, O God? Rescue me!
You have seen me, I have been obedient; do not be silent!
Vindicate my cause! Make haste to help me.
Yet something profoundly beautiful emerges from the dust of those cries.
Because those cries symbolize dependence, trust. Chosen faithfulness; believing, despite the knowledge of his eyes.
Because it is pure, desperate knowledge that it is God, God, who must act. God who must move.
Oh, what a beautiful mercy. To be brought low; to know sheer and utter dependence on a powerful, holy, sovereign, God.
And to not only know his power, but to taste the sweet fruit of His goodness. Might we rest in that dependence.
And my answer finishes–I don’t know why, but I know my God.
I don’t know why, but I know Him.
I know His grace and I know His justness.
And I know that His every action and His ever thought is profound and pregnant with purpose.
And perhaps it is that. That, that is one of the greatest beauties of pain.
To be brought face to face with human depravity, with human dependence. And in that, to come face to face with His power, His glory.
To come face to face with Him.
Because it is in the desperation that we are desperate for what we don’t humanly possess.
For what we so desperately need.
For it is His power that is made perfect in my weakness.
Perhaps David is one of the greatest pictures of loving God when life screams pain, when life is far too difficult to express in words.
Perhaps it is his response we must mirror. His outright confusion, his desperate cries; yet cries marked by humble boldness with his Creator.
Cries that are cocooned with a deep, unshakeable, profound knowledge that God is… God.
That He will redeem, that He will rescue, that He will act, that He will move. Cries framed by and shrouded in the very character of God, the unchanging Truth.
Cries not asking if.
Because He is God.
And that never changes, my sweet friend; that never changes.
(Psalm 35-45 are some of the most beautiful Psalms, in which we see David crying out to God for help. They are wonderfully encouraging.)