I’m tired. Tired of existing in this haphazard, self-sabotaging, trusting when it’s convenient for me way. I’m tired of fighting. Dear God, am I tired of fighting. Tired of fighting the voices in my head, tired of fighting the voices from my past, tired of fighting the doubts of my future, tired of fighting the dreaded presence of my present.
And I’m angry. Angry at you. Angry at what was and what wasn’t. Angry at what happened and what didn’t.
But mostly, I’m tired.
It’s been a long… I don’t even know how long.
I don’t have to tell you about the many long, sleepless, tear-filled nights. The nights where I came oh so close but not close enough. The nights where I spent all night wondering if all this fighting will end up being worth it in the end. Because right now, in this moment, I’m not sure it is.
Not in like a suicidal way, but in an “I’m a Bills fan, thriving on disappointment and setbacks, cautiously optimistic” type way. And I don’t want to get my hopes up. Because though I know in the grand scheme of all that is good and powerful, you are the goodest and the most powerful, there’s a tiny part of me that fears that there are things you could prevent but don’t want to. Or there are things–some evils–you can’t prevent.
And that doesn’t make sense, from a rational “God is perfect all-powerful love” type place. I’ve come to realize that sometimes, love isn’t enough.
Sometimes love isn’t enough to prevent suicide or overdoses or mass shootings. Sometimes love doesn’t care enough about the future so we take it for granted. But nothing is for sure.
(Of course, that’s a generalization, and I tend not to dabble in generalizations because they’re always wrong. HA.)
But man, am I tired. Man, am I angry. Man, am I self-sabotaging: not eating, not sleeping, trying to carry everything when it’s not mine to carry, trying to fix everything when there’s not enough glue in this world to fix the brokenness I feel.
Sometimes I forget that I don’t have to. I don’t have to be my own protector, my own provider, my own power source. Sometimes I’m so focused on the times when I felt you didn’t protect me that I forget the times you did. And I don’t know where I’m going with this, if anywhere.
But I feel like I’m in the lion’s den, or in that broken cistern, or in that fiery furnace, just crying out “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”
And I don’t know. I don’t know that you have, but I also can’t prove definitively that you haven’t. Which is why I’m writing this, to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense. Because science can’t prove that you exist. And my faith is sometimes too small to believe in what I can’t see.
And maybe I’m just blabbering on, but maybe someone out there is reading this and is wondering the same things I’m wondering.
Why does the church try so hard to be perfect when Jesus sat with the broken and the sinners?
Why do bad things happen?
Why… I have so many whys, and not enough because. And just so many what ifs.
This is me trying to surrender it all. Trying to surrender my desire to drive into trees. My desire to be perfect. My desire to control the things I can’t control. This is me trying to surrender my past, my present, my future.
But I’m stuck. I’m stuck because I still blame myself for everything that happened. Still believe that I don’t deserve the second, third, fourth chances I’ve gotten.
Yet, I still know, in spite of it all, that you are good. You are good and honest and just.
But I’m angry, and there’s a disconnect between what I know and what I believe, and I don’t know how to believe that you are good and honest and just because of everything that’s happened to me, everything that’s happened to my friends, that continues to happen in this world. How can you BE?
I know that faith lies in this disconnect.
And I still don’t know where I’m going with this, except here: maybe my problem lies in the being. Maybe I have yet to accept the fact that I’m here, I’m alive, I’m fighting. Maybe the problem is that a part of me doesn’t want to be, wants to be a was. But I am. And You Are.
And someday, everything will be.
Moses and his people wandered in the desert for 40 years before entering the land promised to them, and, yet, here I am, wondering when the hell I’m going to reach my ‘other side.’ When is all my pain and my doubt and my hurt gonna stop?
But then it hits me like a knife in the chest: it’s not about me. It’s never been about me. It’s about you, and what you’ll do through me–I feel so useless, too depressed to be usable, to broken to be fixable. But you’ve always used the broken ones: Moses and his stutter; Rahab and her history; Elijah and his suicidalness; Joseph and his story of abuse.
We’re all broken in some way.
Sometimes, my brokenness becomes my focal point, and I forget how far I’ve come. Healing is hard. Healing is so hard.
But you’ve got this.
You’ve always had this. Had it. Had me. Had all of us.
And even when we’re not, you’ll still BE.