Monday, May 4, 2009

And so I lift you up.

I said I would pray, and then I thought...Do I know how to?

Do I know how to pray for your pain? Perhaps it's not what mine was, maybe I don't know how to ask God for exactly what you feel, if I haven't felt the same. 

And then I thought...I still know what pain feels like.

I know what it's like when your heart hurts so bad that your real heart hurts, that the muscles and sinews and your very blood rushing through them throb with the ache of your soul. I know what it feels like when your tears fall and fall til the flood of them puddle at your feet. I know what it's like when the poison of your pain wells and wells until it rushes out of your eyes in tears that feel like relief as they pour down your face...but when you are finished crying because you can't breathe anymore, your eyes are swollen and burning...the ache remains. 

I know what it's like to question God: Why me? What did I do wrong? Was I that stupid? Did I hear you wrong? And if I wasn't despicably stupid, if I tried so very, very hard to do right...why this much pain? If You love me, why don't You make it better, why don't You heal me?

And hardest of all, when I see no reasons, I believe no promises, I can think of nothing else to help me live another minute besides, "Lord, where else shall I go? Thou hast the words of eternal life."

I see a life without these rules of faith, without the seemingly merciless mandate to persevere, to believe what I cannot see, to claim what I cannot touch, to rest where I see no peace. I stare long into that void; and in a moment, the terror of Nothing, of No One, rushes over me and I cry, "Entreat me not to leave Thee nor turn back from following Thee!" and I sob for the chance to cling His robes, I beg that no matter what else may come, no matter what heart-wrenching agony I suffer, no matter if all the promises remain hidden, to be finally, only, found at His feet.

I know what it feels like when after these tears and these prayers, the ache remains. The night is dark and lonely, and the morning seems to hold no promise of light or of cheer. 

I know what pain is. It may be that your pain comes from a different wound than mine does, but I know your ache bleeds the same, your tears fall with the same burn, your physical heart pounds with the same pulse of emptiness that mine does. 

And despite everything, I know that my Redeemer lives, and I know that His heart is for me. And so I know that His heart is for you. 

And so I lift you up to Him.