Recovery Part 4. God and Me.
I'm never sure about posts like this one below. It is probably more raw than would make everyone comfortable. Maybe some will think it's bad. But it has been my journey, and I suspect there are others who can relate.
I've always been empathic, but had a fairly low key life in comparison to these past few years. Experiencing the dark things that I have has made me even more aware of the pain around me, and sometimes it can feel hard to hold up under the weight of it. There's not just my pain. There is mine and a whole lot worse. And it's everywhere.
Back to the three stories that I mentioned in part two; One night Jaret and I got away for awhile. We were outside talking in the dark. I was crushed from the pain. Mine. The husband left wondering what went wrong. Why his wife died when they were sure God said she wouldn't. The husband and children living with the reality that no help was enough for the wife and mom they loved. And the fear and disappointment of repeat cancer.
That night I talked about God. Where is He? Why doesn't He respond? How can He be all knowing, all powerful and loving, and yet allow so much pain? How/why do I keep believing Him, when so much evidence around me makes me a fool to do so? We talked about how I didn't ever really want a word from Him because I was afraid of disillusionment. But He gave me one anyway. So I stepped forward with shaky faith and claimed it, despite my fear. I even told people. My kids. My prayer group. The blog. And not so much because I wanted to, but because it felt like an act of obedient faith to believe it enough to say it. And now, over two years later, we are still waiting.
That night I wailed out of maybe the deepest sorrow I have ever felt. I wondered what neighbors were thinking if they stepped outside, because they most assuredly would have heard me, but I couldn't hold the agony in. Sobbing in grief I said, "If God told me He would heal me, even though I didn't want Him to, and then we told our kids, and they were so relieved, and they keep praying and waiting and believing, and then He doesn't, what kind of a God is that? How can I love someone so mean?"
And I wasn't angry. And it wasn't that I didn't love Him. It was that I DO love Him. I believe Him. If He wasn't real my entire world would crumble, and I don't say that as a cliche. He is truly my everything. But it hurt so much to love Him. Made no sense to me in the moment.
I came to no conclusions that night, but Jaret was so present with me in my grief, that I left that night a little better. I realized that if I was ever going to really be ok, deep down in my soul, this wound would have to be healed. I remembered a book that someone mentioned to me a year or two ago, called "Totally Forgiving God". I'm sure to some this sounds ludicrous or blasphemous, but when I remembered the title, I immediately got it from the library. It has been neither ludicrous nor blasphemous, and is meeting me in my wounded place.
Details to follow in part 5. :)
I've always been empathic, but had a fairly low key life in comparison to these past few years. Experiencing the dark things that I have has made me even more aware of the pain around me, and sometimes it can feel hard to hold up under the weight of it. There's not just my pain. There is mine and a whole lot worse. And it's everywhere.
Back to the three stories that I mentioned in part two; One night Jaret and I got away for awhile. We were outside talking in the dark. I was crushed from the pain. Mine. The husband left wondering what went wrong. Why his wife died when they were sure God said she wouldn't. The husband and children living with the reality that no help was enough for the wife and mom they loved. And the fear and disappointment of repeat cancer.
That night I talked about God. Where is He? Why doesn't He respond? How can He be all knowing, all powerful and loving, and yet allow so much pain? How/why do I keep believing Him, when so much evidence around me makes me a fool to do so? We talked about how I didn't ever really want a word from Him because I was afraid of disillusionment. But He gave me one anyway. So I stepped forward with shaky faith and claimed it, despite my fear. I even told people. My kids. My prayer group. The blog. And not so much because I wanted to, but because it felt like an act of obedient faith to believe it enough to say it. And now, over two years later, we are still waiting.
That night I wailed out of maybe the deepest sorrow I have ever felt. I wondered what neighbors were thinking if they stepped outside, because they most assuredly would have heard me, but I couldn't hold the agony in. Sobbing in grief I said, "If God told me He would heal me, even though I didn't want Him to, and then we told our kids, and they were so relieved, and they keep praying and waiting and believing, and then He doesn't, what kind of a God is that? How can I love someone so mean?"
And I wasn't angry. And it wasn't that I didn't love Him. It was that I DO love Him. I believe Him. If He wasn't real my entire world would crumble, and I don't say that as a cliche. He is truly my everything. But it hurt so much to love Him. Made no sense to me in the moment.
I came to no conclusions that night, but Jaret was so present with me in my grief, that I left that night a little better. I realized that if I was ever going to really be ok, deep down in my soul, this wound would have to be healed. I remembered a book that someone mentioned to me a year or two ago, called "Totally Forgiving God". I'm sure to some this sounds ludicrous or blasphemous, but when I remembered the title, I immediately got it from the library. It has been neither ludicrous nor blasphemous, and is meeting me in my wounded place.
Details to follow in part 5. :)
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Love you!