My people are tiring of my pain. But it’s just the beginning. Maybe it’s
because I hold it together really well around other people. I’m trying to be
positive, I really am. But when I get home and it’s just me, I am flooded. It
is so many things, and I’m not asking anyone to fix it. You can’t. I’m not even asking you to be with me in
this place, if it’s too uncomfortable for you. I’m just asking that you
don’t offer placating words to try and fix it in your own mind. (I understand
this, tiring of someone’s pain. I have been here too, and so I acknowledge that
you will tire of mine, and I apologize to so many, for brushing your pain off.
I should have just acknowledged to you that I couldn’t handle it for a little
while, and listened to what you actually needed, instead of trying to fix it.)
At church one
Sunday, someone said to me, “you’re young. You’ll find something else.” Ouch. I
don’t want to find something else. And perhaps I am young, but it still
hurts. I compared it to breaking off an engagement. I’m sure anyone who has had
that happen to them would not appreciate my comparison, but that’s the closest
thing I can come up with. When I told the woman this at church she looked at me
strange; she did not understand. How could I expect her to? I know it seems
far-fetched. But it’s not. For two years, everything I did had Rome- and
refugees, in mind. Every piece of clothing I bought, every experience, book,
measured against that place. I was committed to Rome and to the refugees there.
I had no plan B. I had no alternative. I said two years out loud, but in my
heart I was preparing for more. So that’s gone, and beyond that, I have no
work. I am discouraged, Friend, but I do
not expect you to encourage me. I try to keep it to myself, the pain,
because no one wants to hear it after a while, but I can’t hold it in all the
time. I live with other people, after all, and they are tired of it too.
I am told to just
trust God.
I do
trust God. I know, down to
my bones, that I would gladly follow Him to the edge of the earth. I know, with
every inch of my being, that I will do whatever He asks of me. I know that He
has good for me, but also that He is the King and He is not required to do good
for me. I want to be with Him. I want to work where He is; I want to breathe
where He is. Walking in these woods, the only thing I want is for Jesus to be
walking next to me. Not the knowledge that He is near, not the faith that I am
not alone. I want Jesus, physically, next to me. That is all I want in all the
world. I want to be the woman who shoves her way through the crowd to touch his
garment. I want his voice, “daughter, your faith has made you well.” His
physical voice. His physical garment.
Once, I had a friend
tell me to be careful how much I wanted to be with Jesus, because maybe God
would fulfill that desire and I would die. I don’t want to die. I like this life.
But I do want to be with Jesus. So. Dearly. Jesus is my heart’s
desire. And I do trust God. But
trust isn’t pretending everything is hunky dory; trust is keeping walking
even though everything is not okay. And I’m going with Jesus. I’m staying with
God. Don’t you worry about that. So I
don’t need you to make it better. You can’t, you won’t. I just need you to not
assume that my struggle means I’m not trusting God. I’m not falling off the
ledge. I’m shouting at God in my car and using ugly words and maybe I’m not a
lot of fun to be with sometimes right now, but I’m steady. I’m safe, because
the world couldn’t pry me out of the arms of Jesus if it tried (and it has
tried). I’m in this for Jesus. Being with Jesus is the reward I am waiting for.
I’m not going to step off the road that takes me to Him. I’m asking the hard
questions and I’m struggling and maybe I’m having some sort of faith crisis,
but it’s not the sort of crisis that’s going to take me away from Jesus. I
don’t really know how, but I’m clinging to Jesus with all I’m worth.
So you don’t have to
make it better. But if you do want to offer words, offer words of affirmation. If
you want to offer words, offer words of, “yes, you’re still walking.” Words of,
“I see you doing this hard thing.”
Tell me how God is encouraging you,
share me verses that are encouraging you
today. Just don’t assume that this struggle means I’ve jumped the ledge. No,
these feet are firmly on the ground. Maybe stomping a bit, maybe I’ve crawled
into fetal position, but on the ground. And God can handle the stomping—you don’t
have to. And I might tell you about it anyway, because it’s hard to keep it
sucked up inside, but just know that I do not ever expect you to fix it.
okay, I’m done.
Thanks for reading all that.
