Sometimes I wish that God loved me more. More than it feels like He does. And I know the pat Christian answer is that He died for me, and what more could I ask for. Yes, I know the stinging rebuke of that response, but truth be told, in the cold, dark loneliness of this life, and His seeming silence over so many requests, I have not come to know Him as trustworthy and good.
I see the ladies bow their heads, beautiful, tenderhearted saints with voices who speak with Him often. The prophetess lays heart bare and I know that she has spoken with the Majesty many times before, I hear the Spirit wings on her voice as it rises to His throne. And I wonder what He does with the words when they arrive.
Do You not see our pain? Do you not see our tears? Do You not see that we are hurting down here? Some lonelier than others. And yet your ears seem deaf or our tongues seem mute or maybe it’s a bit of both. I have not seen You move in what feels like ages, and my bones are weary, and my heart is wandering, tired from such a heavy burden. And I wish that you loved me more, that I too may be loved.
And I remember Job and how You did him, how You let him suffer in some weird chess match, and in the end, when he was broken and crying, You rebuked his pain and he fell even lower. But I cried with him, because I know that pain, the pain of losing everything, of starting life over at a time when it was meant to be flourishing. I cried with him because he wept, and You stood by and watched. I know that feeling, the being watched while your world falls apart. The being watched, in loneliness and desperation, wishing for a Savior to do something, to save the day.
I do not understand Your ways, and though I cannot deny You in any way, shape, or form, I find the truth buried in my heart that I do not trust You. When I cry out, I do not believe that You will answer, and so I have stopped crying out. I do not call out with confidence that You will hear or respond, because so many prayers before fell on deaf ears, and so I have stopped calling out altogether. And yet I tremble still. I cannot help it. I cry in the darkness after the littles have slept and I have poured out all, empty and exhausted, alone. Your spirit has revealed too much for me to walk away, and yet Your silence and laissez faire approach to us is baffling. So I stand, fall, weep, carry on. And wonder. And believe still.
After a long silence, I am honored to link up with beautiful Emily once again at Imperfect Prose.