"The whole consciousness of [...] my hope quenched, my faith death-struck, swayed full and mighty above me in one sullen mass. That bitter hour cannot be described; in truth, 'the waters came into my soul; I sank in deep mire; I felt no standing; I came into deep waters; the floods overflowed me.'"
Charlotte Bronte.
"For the enemy has pursued my soul; he has crushed my life to the ground; he has made me sit in darkness like those long dead. Therefore my spirit faints within me; my heart within me is appalled."
David, a man of God.
David's answer was to remember the past. I struggle to do that, struggle to find in its cold written stone the inspiration to hope for the future. I have faint, dawning hope in the promises of God, for he who promised is faithful, but it just leaves me wearily asking for help. "The words of gold, have all grown cold, over and over...I need to see you in the sunrise. Time takes its toll on us and its tries its best just to steal our love and we bend and we break but we don't give up; time takes its toll on us." David's cry leaves the tears in my eyes, my soul aching. God, God, God...
I once compared me becoming a manager to a hermit being taken to a world-famous rock concert. It is an expensive, honor-giving gift. The hermit would be horrified.
I thought, the hermit might enjoy it, might marvel at it, at least, even if it was taxing, nerve-snipping, and all together foreign. But I did not remember how ready the hermit might be to leave by the end of the three or four hours, how much he might bless God for the peace and quiet of the smallest breeze that blew through his hidden harbor.
I have been a manager over a month. I have not yet learned to bless the boredom of my old job, but I have learned to understand the grace of busy afternoons at the job I held for nine years before this company. From fourteen to twenty-three I worked there, and never did I dread working at the grocery store with the same held-in-check fervour of going to my job.
If I did not know for certain that God had given me this, I might take it as a sign to quit. But I prayed for weeks, and asked friends to pray, and told God I surrendered--He could do anything He wanted. He did, by offering me the job but completely changing the job description. I had known it was somewhat open to interpretation, but the one department I hadn't even thought about considering is the department I'm over. And there were even good things that happened today.
But I cannot check the bitterness that I hold from my tongue (most times), that has fallen from my mouth to coat my heart and mind. I do not enjoy this rock concert, the thousands of cries of unfinished tasks, the energy required when all I want is quiet, the complaints of the janitors and guests in the back rows that I try to offset...I feel bitterness well up as I cry, why? Why, God, did you place me in a rock concert. I'd truly be willing to accept the quiet of a tomb over the clamor of this world by now, if I did not have so many ties to the living.
God, I do not, do not, do not know what to do. I cry, "No mercy in the high noon desert, no shadow gonna block the sun, still covered in dust from all our yesterdays and days to come. Every turn is a new temptation," every day another sin. So many battles lost. But the same song sings,
"Bring us home! Lead us to the highest wall; every single stone will fall; we have never walked alone--only you can bring us home. Every tear drop in the sand, longing for a distant land, we have never walked alone, only you can bring us home. You are fire in the night sky; you are cloud by day; we're calling on the name of Yahweh! In seven days everything was made, and in a week, it's crazy how everything can change." One week. Oh, God, you don't even need that. My God, help me. I have nothing left but this cry. Help me.
Disappointment swamps my life, bitterness eats at my soul. I cannot swallow back, nor do I have the strength to expel. I have everything that promises a good, prosperous, busy American life, but it tastes of ashes. I want nothing but you, my God. Within me wars my desires for comfort and pleasure and distraction, but on my knees, brought there by everything my life has given me, I want nothing but you. Nothing else, nothing else, for only you can satisfy. Only you are worthy to be praised, worshipped. You are worthy of worship, God of justice and of grace, of holiness and compassion, of perfection and of sinners. My mind is not my own, my job is not my own, they are yours. By the same admission, my life is yours, and so is my soul. The bitterness I feel cannot win against the God who brings the dead to life. Disappointment dissipates before the truth of who you are. Give me your grace, grace to let go of my frustration with my inability to communicate, to let go of my constant tiredness, to ask forgiveness for the impurity of my mind and heart and to know I am forgiven, to see that I am empty and yet to know that your children have the fullness of life. You are not set back by my stumbling questions, your plan is not weakened by my tiredness, my sin is forgiven and I am clean, and your hands are never empty, but full of what you give your children. My God, my God, I need you even more than I want you.
"I never thought I would be much more than Jesse's king. Who would ever dream a king would come from Bethlehem? I know that I've crashed and burned, lives have been overturned, but you redeem everything, yeah, even me."
I am waiting, God of grace. Come help me now.
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