Lord, I don't think I have the faith....
An exhausting day, filled with words, little things I can write and speak but yet contain haunts and spectres of fear behind them. Each one of us has our words we don't want to hear-- black sticks on paper and vibrations in vocal chords that shake life, that shake our knees.
Tonight, Lord, I don't think I have the faith. What do you want of me? I don't know what to do. You aren't speaking and touching. Flares to anger, to a numb blankness, and revives in a dark of despair, a swirl and whirl. Tired. Just tired. How long, a wretched scream and whimper.
What, what do you have to say to me, Lord? I don't think I have the faith to face now, the future.
"Remember--that story you read? Abraham was marching up the mountain, a long slow climb of three days. Each step a burden, clinging to faith, 'God will provide, my son.' He didn't see the ram climbing up the other side of the mountain at the same time. I will provide the strength and grace you need, when you need it."
He granted me a sister to pray with me. Parents to talk to me. He granted me, mercifully, sleep that night. Grace, in the moment I need it, through various hands. They were my faith for me--saying what I needed to hear.
"My soul faints with longing for your salvation, BUT I have put my hope in your word.
My eyes fail, looking for your promise; I say, 'When will you comfort me?'
Though I am a wineskin in the smoke, I do not forget your decrees.
How long must your servant wait?... help me.... Preserve my life according to your love..." (Ps. 119:81-88).
Both acute and chronic, words haunt. They come at you in acute moments, eating at you, pecking, and hurling. They come at you time and time again, the haunts behind the words chronically gnawing away.
But the Lord's words are forever. They are the reality. They are more certain than any of the vague haunts behind diagnosis, tests, threats, words of others, worries, fears--whatever you face in that moment. His Word stands forever. In the middle of Psalm 119, the author gives voice to the suffering that has been threaded--but never received center stage--throughout the psalm. But immediately, he affirms:
"Your word, O LORD, is eternal; it stands firm in the heavens. Your faithfulness continues through all generations; you established the earth and it endures. Your laws endure to this day, for all things serve you. If your law had not been my delight, I would have perished in my affliction" (Ps. 119:89-96).
His Word is eternal, firm, real. Moreover, his word is not impersonal--it is a word that orders the world, the suns and the stars, that created me, that weaves the moments of our lives, that calls us, that tells us the way we should go so we can walk in it, it is a word whispered by the Spirit that reminds us of what Jesus taught. His word is living, personal, and sharper than a two-edged sword. His word penetrates. His word gives life.
Tonight, I don't think I have the faith. My soul faints with longing for his salvation. But my weak, little faith rests in HIM--more real and more great than anything. His promise is firm. His grace will come to me in the moment I need it. I turn my monologue of fear into a dialogue with him.
Tonight, Lord, I don't think I have the faith. What do you want of me? I don't know what to do. You aren't speaking and touching. Flares to anger, to a numb blankness, and revives in a dark of despair, a swirl and whirl. Tired. Just tired. How long, a wretched scream and whimper.
What, what do you have to say to me, Lord? I don't think I have the faith to face now, the future.
"Remember--that story you read? Abraham was marching up the mountain, a long slow climb of three days. Each step a burden, clinging to faith, 'God will provide, my son.' He didn't see the ram climbing up the other side of the mountain at the same time. I will provide the strength and grace you need, when you need it."
He granted me a sister to pray with me. Parents to talk to me. He granted me, mercifully, sleep that night. Grace, in the moment I need it, through various hands. They were my faith for me--saying what I needed to hear.
"My soul faints with longing for your salvation, BUT I have put my hope in your word.
My eyes fail, looking for your promise; I say, 'When will you comfort me?'
Though I am a wineskin in the smoke, I do not forget your decrees.
How long must your servant wait?... help me.... Preserve my life according to your love..." (Ps. 119:81-88).
Both acute and chronic, words haunt. They come at you in acute moments, eating at you, pecking, and hurling. They come at you time and time again, the haunts behind the words chronically gnawing away.
But the Lord's words are forever. They are the reality. They are more certain than any of the vague haunts behind diagnosis, tests, threats, words of others, worries, fears--whatever you face in that moment. His Word stands forever. In the middle of Psalm 119, the author gives voice to the suffering that has been threaded--but never received center stage--throughout the psalm. But immediately, he affirms:
"Your word, O LORD, is eternal; it stands firm in the heavens. Your faithfulness continues through all generations; you established the earth and it endures. Your laws endure to this day, for all things serve you. If your law had not been my delight, I would have perished in my affliction" (Ps. 119:89-96).
His Word is eternal, firm, real. Moreover, his word is not impersonal--it is a word that orders the world, the suns and the stars, that created me, that weaves the moments of our lives, that calls us, that tells us the way we should go so we can walk in it, it is a word whispered by the Spirit that reminds us of what Jesus taught. His word is living, personal, and sharper than a two-edged sword. His word penetrates. His word gives life.
Tonight, I don't think I have the faith. My soul faints with longing for his salvation. But my weak, little faith rests in HIM--more real and more great than anything. His promise is firm. His grace will come to me in the moment I need it. I turn my monologue of fear into a dialogue with him.
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