Don't ask me to do this.
Days come where words like these swirl in our minds and hearts like dried leaves on a grey November day leaving behind a faithless mosaic of doubt.
We blame ourselves, our prayer lives, our worries. We can't remember what grace is if we ever really knew. It's easier to blame myself than accept that evil could occur, that evil to this extent could find me, could shatter me.
I don't want to do this.
Why would you ask me to do this....
This verse like so many other platitudes and memes has hit me empty, made me angry, left me blankly staring into space. There's a place in grief where I honestly doubt whether Jesus is enough - When the storm of pain deafens me to all things...
We are not in shock anymore; we are not protected by our minds which were once satisfied with us just getting out of bed. No, today we know that there are no more Thanksgivings with Taylor; that one day, we will spend more Thanksgivings without her than we did with her. And we just can't understand or accept and words of doubt swirl mindlessly.
It occurred to me that untimely loss of any kind must feel this way, inhibiting our way to find God - but when the storm dissipates or our dimly lit minds save us from the pain, we emerge, look around and find the strength we thought could never be enough. It was waiting.
Faith isn't always that power, that sense that empowers us through the darkest nights or the path we never wanted to walk. For me, faith lies like the existing stream bed after the flood, There's damage and remnants of destruction littering the now gentle stream, but the original seam that cut the earth and carried life-giving water remains.
In the end, I can do very little. I am fairly certain I will never be as strong as I once thought I was - but I do recognize the stream bed that carved its way through the clay long ago and still remains through all things. And, I am thankful.