Last Sunday, our pastor preached Psalm 127.
And it made me angry because it felt like a snot-nosed sister pushing on that dark blue bruise with her bony little pointer finger.
Ow. And, why would You do that? Why?
It's not that I don't think the words are true-- I know and I believe deep in my bones that these words are truth and light and life.
I believe that children are a heritage from the Lord. Kids are treasures. I have seven nieces and nephews, I'm surrounded by kids at work, I love kids. I know. I know. I see them, I value them, I love them. Arrows, each one- they each have a purpose and a future that I can't possibly imagine.
I believe it. Yes.
But sometimes, the Bible hurts.
The psalmist proclaims the power and provision and promises of God, and then goes on to break my heart with the very thing that God hasn't provided.
Sometimes, it's okay to walk from the sanctuary to the bathroom to cry.
The bathroom becomes a sanctuary.
Standing against the stall partition, I closed my eyes and breathed deep to slow my heart.
Safe and held by a loving God, a God I don't fully understand and a God with whose plans I disagree, I came again to Him and said the words He's heard so many times before.
I don't get it.
I don't get it.
I love You. I trust You. I know that You have a plan... but what is it? Why can't I see it?
If children are a heritage, blessings from You, then why are You holding them back from me? What is so wrong with me that You don't bless me?
It would have been nice to hear an audible answer, or even just to feel a whisper over my soul. I wish I could tell you that there was peace. That I found the solution.
Instead, just silence.
I took a few more deep breaths, wiped my eyes, squared my shoulders, and walked back into my not-so-sanctuary, filled with my brothers and sisters in Christ. Filled with their quivers of arrows.
When the service was over, we took the long way out of the church, fleeing the fellowship hall. I don't really know what I'd say to anyone, anyway. How do you explain this grief for something that doesn't exist, that never existed?
On the way home, he held my hand and asked what was wrong.
"The same thing," I replied, as my eyes filled again, and I was angry and resented him for asking, but also somehow really needed him to ask. "Always the same thing. Just, the passage today..."
"I can understand that," he said.
We drove home, and from the window I watched the fields, full and green and lovely, and felt the weight of his hand, warm in mine, and whispered it.
Even so . . . thank You.
The Important Thing
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