By the time I make it to the bottom of my second cup, the last few sips have gone cold. I'm reading through the framework of the faith, the pages written by spiritual giants, scrawling out notes as I try to make sense of it all. But the truth is, I'm distracted. The snoozing pup beside me, the hum of the washing machine upstairs, a buzzing phone at arm's reach.
Be still//And know//That I am God.
But what does that even mean? And who am I to stand before a holy & righteous God, perfect in wisdom and power, and yet-- mindful of me.
I find Him in the beautiful. The flaming sunsets and twinkling stars. Changing leaves and roaring oceans. The cooling air and a blazing fire. I feel the warmth of His presence like the sun on my skin.
But the ugly?
I wrestle with the demons of doubt. Nights clouded with fear. Anxiety that sneaks up like a thief at my door, stealing joy. There are wounds. Old hurts that ache as the weather changes. Stiff ankles and creaky knees. "Why haven't you healed me yet?" I cry out in frustration, bleeding and crying.
He's tried. Lord knows He's tried.
But the stitches He used to bind my broken heart? I tugged them out long ago. The nasty, ugly scab that He forms time & time again? I pick at it like a child. At my darkest I doubt His goodness...
God what do you know about wounds?
And He reaches out His hands.
What do you know about pain?
He pulls me close to His pierced side.
What do you know about bleeding?
Faithful and patient, abounding in love and mercy... “Child, what do you know about healing? Will you trust me this time? Give up the jealousy and the bitterness and fill your hands with the hem of my garment instead?”
I will try. Because the last woman spent 12 years bleeding. And that’s no way to live.
There’s no doubt I find Him in the beautiful. But He finds me the ugly. Right at the center of my broken, fallen existence. He binds up our wounds. This is the fullness of grace.
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