When I Can't Say - Part 1

The previous post raised a question. The tempest tears. Loss. Soul sears. Questions too deep to be spoken. And yet… What has it accomplished? I don’t feel closer to him. I don’t feel like I’ve grown or learned some great wisdom. I don’t feel “gain.”

Isn’t suffering supposed to make me stronger? Isn’t it supposed to do something? Or isn’t he supposed to send encouragement, help me feel his peace and presence? But, Lord, it is just black! Dark… Silent… Aren’t we supposed to be able to say, “I’d do it all over again because I know you more, love you more, feel you more, am a better Christian”? Or, isn’t this what we’re supposed to be able to say with the psalmist, “Your love is better than life”? What about those times when I don’t feel his love is better than life? When I don’t know if I can say honestly his love is better than X?  Lord, right now I’m in pain and I can’t feel you. Lord, right now I can’t say your love is better than fill in the blank: the dream I had; the potential that fell through; the heart desire; health or freedom from pain; the relationship; the financial security (not even prosperity, Lord!). Where is the good? The growth? The promises?

The ravaged beach is left in ruins; it appears no restoration, no healing. Only ruins.  

First of all, these cry-questions surge while we are still in the storm, before the fairy tale ending. The ravaging storm does give nitrogen to the ground and water to the roots, but the fresh blush of green is not seen until after the storm. If you feel an inferior Christian because at that moment you can’t see your “gain,” whatever you expected, give yourself grace in the moment. Time. That moment is fierce. The lightning just struck. But time.

Time is something God has crafted into the structure of the universe, into the structure of relationships, including our relationship with him. We do not live in a vending machine relationship—put so much suffering in, and out pops the reward. We do not live in a microwave relationship—zap for sixty seconds and insta-Christian. No, we live in a relationship of grace, a God who is committed to us for the long haul (indeed, from before time began and until well after time ends). God who is present in silence, present in the dark moments, present before and after, and sees the after. He is growing a soul of eternal glory, not a slim beach grass blade that will fade in a week. Give yourself time. Do not condemn yourself for those doubts. Hold fast. Weather it out.

Related, God gives us grace to be human. He knows we are but dust and has compassion on us (Ps. 103:14). We are human. We doubt. We fail. We grow. We fall and we get up. In that moment, give yourself grace. Christ’s faithfulness covers your doubts. God is not condemning you when the pain of the moment causes doubts and fears. He is with you in afflictions (Isa. 63:9). He knows the weakness and temptations of being human (Heb. 4:15-16).

Allow yourself to be weak. Rest in that. The oak may crack in the storm as it tries in its own strength to be strong, but the pliable beach poplar, in its weakness, bends and sways and survives. “Strong” is not always strong, and “weak” is not always weak. Sometimes, our search for “gain” can spring from a desire to be “strong.” We want to set out on a self-improvement adventure and gain the most from this suffering. We want to be self-sufficient. Strong. Worthy of honor and praise. We want to be the hero, the buoy that stands strong in the storm. But, we need not be superheroes. We should not be superheroes. It is God who is the Life-Saver Buoy, not us.  To try to be more than we are, to mask doubt and despair, is not the dependence that glorifies him. Grace. Allow yourself to be human, as he does.

Fourthly, know that there are emotions, and then there is faith. Emotions are but a mirror of the wind—the wave crests that are tossed, twirled, whipped in everywhich direction with the gale gusts. Faith is the deep beneath—the two mile down deeps where the storm does not stir. We may in moments gasp in doubt, in fear, question, rage. But deep beneath, there is still a certainty. Deep calls to deep. Heart still knows.

Yet, most importantly, in that moment, know that he is sustaining you. You may fail. You may doubt. You may not feel him. You may feel abandoned. But you have breath still (whether you want it or not)—it is by his good pleasure and design. Pleasure. Design. Even in that gasp—he is still delighting in you. He is still purposing your life. His right hand still upholds you. Christ’s faithfulness covers your failures. The Spirit is groaning with you. Even in those moments of doubt, denial, fist-shaking, rage, you are surrounded and secure in the Triune God.

I have sat on the floor and sobbed, feeling the absence. The lack. The nothing for all of this. The loss. I have lied, curled up in a fetal position, too numb, too dark, to cry or ask. These are truths for that moment. Little anchors for the soul. My words seem so light for a storm so fierce. I realize these little anchors are not easy to remember in those moments. In those moments, he seems distant. But during the next ebb of the storm, though it still rages, I realize he is still sustaining me, even in those moments. Faith is a gift from first to last from the Author and Perfector of our faith (Heb. 12:3). Even in those moments, he is our anchor in the storm.

“So when God desired to show more convincingly to the heirs of the promise the unchangeable character of his purpose, he guaranteed it with an oath, so that by two unchangeable things, in which it is impossible for God to lie, we who have fled for refuge might have strong encouragement to hold fast to the hope set before us. We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain, where Jesus has gone as a forerunner on our behalf, having become a high priest forever after the order of Melchizedek” (Heb. 6:17-20).