an ocean of sorrow

All Sons and Daughters have a song that begins like this:

Feels like an ocean of sorrow is under my skin.

I have never heard truer words. Wrapped underneath all interweavings of skin, trapped in the structure built by my bones and the pathways that are my veins is an ocean of sorrow. An entire ocean, filled with tidal waves and storms is flowing under my skin. It ebbs and it flows and I feel emotion I do not understand. I wonder if I have the capacity to hold these emotions that threaten to explode out of my skin. Just one touch seems as if it will break me open and I will bleed out, my life source gone. 

And as I sit in this cafe, I see oceans of joy, rivers of happiness, forests of melancholy living under the skin of these people. Behind their eyes, as they sit alone, working on things that have captured their attention, share their hearts with people who have stolen their attention, or dream about being in cafes far from here, in distant cities, looking out at streets that are not their own. 

These stories capture me. They invite me on a journey far outside of my own. Into lives that are apart of something bigger. Something far more extravagant than this life I am currently living. 

Because I have been in those distant cities. I have dreamed those far-off dreams. I've been there. The capacity of our human hearts is exponential. 

The core longing of our hearts is that things would make sense. That we would be able to look back at our lives and see a tapestry of beauty. To say that each thread was intentionally woven, each word articulated perfectly, each person a gift. 

But the truth is, words fail. Tears burst out at the wrong time, laughter fills us when we should mourn, people hurt us and break us and they don't say the words we need them to say. Our longings are not met and into our tapestry ends up ugly threads.

I'm only 22 though. I have seen the sun shine on the other side of the world. I have met people who have not been more than 10 miles from their home. I have met people who have experienced loss in the deepest places. I have met people who have encountered joy to the fullest. I have stared up at stars questioning the meaning of my life and wondering about the depths of my pain. I am here and it is hard. There is an ocean of sorrow under my skin. Everything is a disaster, most things are falling apart, none of my tapestries is weaved. Forgotten it has become tangled, a mess I wonder if it could ever be undone. 

Feels like an ocean of sorrow is under my skin.

The very next verse says this, 

but even the ocean eventually meets with the sand. 

Eventually, the sorrow will end, I will encounter joy. Eventually, my life that is undone, my sorrow that is volcanic, my anger that is steady will meet an avalanche of hope. I don't have it all together. The people in this coffee shop don't have it together. But the hope of this song is that Jesus has it all together.  He holds the world in his hands. I get it. I know.

But the ocean of sorrow is still under my skin.

How do I reconcile His goodness and His kindness with this ocean that is a hurricane? That threatens to tear through the very core of my being?
This good, good Father that I have come to know has touched my heart in deep and beautiful ways. I can feel His presence, here. I can see him moving and I fall in worship before Him.
But how does this chaos make sense next to His beauty?

surrender.

My fingers wrapped tightly around this place I've called home. I am clinging desperately to the ones I love, fashioning intricate plans of healing and redemption for their hurting souls. Only now am I coming to realize the fallacies in my words, the failure that has married my attempts at rescue.

Because I wanted to be Jesus.

Not God, not the name above every other name. But I wanted to do what He could do. I wanted to fix people. I wanted to bring healing. I wanted to orchestrate lives together. 

The hard part was this gift he has given me; the gift of feeling. I feel it all so deeply. I feel the pain of my friends, the struggle of my family, the heartache of those around me. 

With that gift, I wanted to bring change.

But I am not Jesus.

I remember the first time I realized I had this gift and I wanted to throw it away immediately. I was in Nicaragua. I had worn myself out in the day playing in a trash dump with children. We handed them food and there wasn't enough. They told us to be careful in the dump, but I got down in the trash with this sweet little girl and I held her. My Spanish was borderline nonexistent. I had nothing to offer her but a sandwich and the willingness to sit in the trash with her. I decided to make her smile. It was my goal. 

But that night, as we sang to Jesus, something in me broke. I cried and I cried because this little girl was never going to hear about Jesus from me. I was a temporary fix for a lifelong problem. She was sitting in that trash and I would leave to my safe bed. She was playing in that trash with dirt smeared on her face and I would shower. She was stuck there and I had freedom. 

Jesus, how is this fair? I cried for her because I felt her pain. I felt the pain that she would experience growing up in nothing. 

I wanted to be Jesus. 

Because my heart felt like He didn't do something. Was He going to do anything for this sweet girl who desperately needed love, who desperately needed to hear Jesus? And that was the first time I felt someone else's pain. And since then, I've entered this world where I feel so deeply and I am to give it to Jesus and pray for these people. But sometimes, I just don't want it. I don't want it because I don't pray. I don't want it because I try to be the doctor of these wounds, the author that writes happily ever afters into these stories. 

His voice is clear, he whispers surrender. Surrender. Jesus, really? You know it's easier to hold this. How do I surrender when these gifts I have I sometimes don't want? How do I surrender when these dreams I have were not what I first started dreaming of? He says to let go of the old me. But the old me was me. It was everything I knew. Everything that made sense. 

He's a God that doesn't make sense. And His plan is far more marvelous than mine could ever be.

I am not Jesus.

Jesus is asking for far more than I ever wanted to give. But he has given me everything, how can I not give him all of me? I was nothing, and now I am his. I have belonging. He has called me by name and written it on the palm of His hand. The gifts he has given me are good. The life he has given me is His. 

So I surrender. 

I surrender to this Jesus who has given me everything, who has wrapped me in his loving arms and held me close, who has promised good out of terrible things, who has turned sorrow into joy and tragedy into a garden. I am not Jesus and that is good. I don't want to be Jesus, I just want to take these gifts he has given me to learn to be like him. So that in my weakness, he can be known. In my chaos, calm will be seen. In my fears, peace will overflow. In my broken, testimony will be heard. 

So I release these fingers that are tightly wound around this life. The good, the bad, the gifts, the talents, the passions, the joys, the sorrows, the material things, my thoughts, and feelings. Everything. I release everything to Him because He is the Giver of every good and perfect gift and what He takes He can restore infinitely. I give it all to Him because He surrendered first, he laid down His life first. He gave Himself first. 

So I surrender, just like Jesus. 

Psalm 31:5, 19

Into your hand I commit my spirit; you have redeemed me, O Lord, faithful God.

Oh, how abundant is your goodness, which you have stored up for those who fear you and worked for those who take refuge in you.  

art of trusting

The first trees that let go of their leaves are the most courageous.

How do they have no fear of the change or the unknown?

Don't they know it will be months until they bloom again?

Does that not shake them?

See, the trees have mastered the art of trusting. They feel the dry air, the shift in the stratosphere, the cooling temperature and they smile.

Now is the time for beauty.

The time for them to rest. The time for survival. 

The trees have been gifted a magical force that helps them survive the freezing temperatures of winter. They are willing to surrender their identity of evergreen beauty. They have lived enough winters to know this is merely temporary, that seasons come and seasons go. 

So the air shifts and so do the trees. The life pulsing through their veins moves slower. The soft leaves dehydrate and become crispy. Vivid colors overtake these trees of strength and onlookers marvel. Because when something or someone goes through a season of change it is absolutely stunning, despite the inner turmoil, as they surrender their wills to the one that is greater than them. 

It is the inside of the tree that does the most wonderful thing. The very nature of the cell changes to become more pliable, chemical reactions cause the starch to turn into sugar creating a natural antifreeze and lastly the liquid of a tree becomes like glass to remain a liquid and avoid freezing. 

It is this miracle that allows a tree to survive winter. 

It is the trust that awes me and leads me to believe that the trees that let go of their leaves first are the most courageous. And I realize I am called to be like the tree. The air is shifting and the temperature is cooling, instead of allowing my heart to panic at the season to come, it ought to smile.

Now is the time for rest. Because the work that God has done this summer to change the very core of my being and the work He will do in preparation for the hunkering down of winter will allow me to survive. 

For a moment, I thought I was the leaves. That the tree was letting go of me, that I would fall to the ground and be only a remnant of beauty, only something that thrived in the abundant months of summer. And there was despair. 

But then I realized, I am the tree. The leaves are the things I must let go of and surrender. They are the things that are not bad but not what the Lord is calling me to do. They are the things that hold me back from being all that God has called me to be. They are my fears - the ones that cause me to doubt the goodness of God. They are my insecurities - the ones that hold me back from being all that I need to be. They are the walls that I build - the ones I believe will keep me safe, but truly only suffocate me. 

And it is incredible that God built nature with a need for rest. I read a quote a few days ago that sticks with me, "Nothing in nature blooms all year long, so don't expect yourself to do so." The God who created beauty, created it for times of dormancy, for times of rest.  Just as He created me for times of rest. If the God of abundance created us to restore and refresh, then why do we feel condemned when we do not do all the things the world has given us to do?

And the thing is, you cannot stop the coming of winter. No matter how hard you try, no matter what you do it is inevitable. So the trees teach us the art of beautiful surrender. They allow a glorious work to be done in them so that when Spring comes, they again can show us splendor. 

Despite what is happening in our lives, whether we have filled our time with too much, if God is prompting a season of rest and you are wearing thin, it is not a call to push yourself to the point of exhaustion, it is time to surrender to the will of the Giver of every good and perfect gift, and trust that He is calling you to a time of restoration, not of condemnation. 

As my leaves turn, I will trust that God is all good and that the impending winter is a call for rest for my soul. I can trust that He will take me in the shadow of his wing and hold me close in the terror of the winds and deadly pestilence that stalks the night. Because no, God doesn't end the winters, instead he shows up in the midst of the winter and blankets me with snows and clothes me in comfort. 

So, I lay me down. I surrender my knowing, I surrender all of me in exchange for all of Him. So that He can take this leaking soul and fill it with His greatness and glory. I let go of what I thought was my splendor in exchange for rest. Soon, he will fill me with more, so that these dry bones will live again and these heavy lungs will breathe in deep. I have prayed that He would take me where my trust is without borders, so here I am, borderless and afraid, falling wonderfully into His grace.

not enough

It was a Jenga of the heart, a balancing act. I kept removing pieces, praying it would be okay.
It very well would have been had those pieces not been placed on top. Each block pertinent to my soul, taken, leaving a gaping hole. New blocks, placed recklessly, unbalanced on top, threatening casualties.
My life quickly becoming a see-saw, each move initiating question of my mental health, balancing dangerously between okay and not.
Each move threatened to be a cherry on top of a very unsteady sand castle.
The magma of this volcano bubbled just beneath the surface,
an eruption is coming.

The first part was these self-inflicted expectations. These thoughts that said I had to be the perfect person, I had to be exactly what everyone needed me to be at every given moment of every day. My identity and central focus suddenly wrapped up in becoming this person I could not be. And when I was not enough, suddenly I was a failure. I couldn't do it. The person I was resembled my humanity, all too well.There was no forfeiting of this identity. I am human through and through. Therefore I cannot meet my expectations because the expectations I have put on myself are equivalent to God.

I cannot be God. Yet, I have fashioned myself into a mini-god. My heart's desire is to be enough for everyone. But what if I'm not enough? What if the truth of the matter is that I am not, nor will I ever be, enough?
I am not enough.
You are not enough.
You will never be enough.

I suppose that should be discouraging.
I suppose it should just crush my heart.

But it is the most freeing statement.
No, I am not enough.
No, you are not enough.
But Jesus Christ is enough.
He is all supreme.
"He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation. For by him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things were created by him and for him. He is before all things, and in him, all things hold together." (Colossians 1:15-17)

I'd like to say it is as easy as wrapping my mind around a verse, repenting of my self-sufficiency and asking Jesus to be my strength.

It is a process. It is a journey. Along the way, more pieces of my Jenga puzzle will come out and I'll trust that the pieces my Father places back on are good. The magma will continue to bubble and soon I may erupt.

But if Christ is enough, he will cover the eruption and the destruction.
If Christ is enough, the questions don't matter.
If Christ is enough, He is the answer.

Since Christ is enough, my heart is secure.
Since He is enough, there is safety.

I will not be Savior for those who need me. He has called me to be a friend, sister, daughter. Not healer, fixer or savior. He knows the amount of time in a day and how much time I need for Him, sleep and self-care. Everything else will flow straight from that.
We are not enough.
But he is MORE than enough.

So I let go of these far-fetched expectations of who I will never be
and I fall heavily into the freedom that Jesus' grace is sufficient for me.
What I do does not matter, it is not measured on a scale.
Who I am is not defined by what I do, it is defined by the mere fact that I am covered with His wings, I am resting in His love, I am breathing by His grace, I am loving by His redemption, I am held together by His sufficiency.
I am not enough.
But He IS enough.

What I Wish I Could Tell You

Four girls sat around me in a circle, my heart was anxious with anticipation for joy that these girls wanted to know Jesus.
The Pastor had made the call. He invited the counselors to stand. He said, "If you've never asked forgiveness for your sins and you want to ask Jesus to come into your life, come forward."
The Gospel had tugged on their heart, Jesus was knocking on their door and in their simple 11-year-old hearts they were answering.
How could I tell them? How could I explain the beauty of the Gospel?
How could I show them that the choice to follow Jesus is the most important choice they could ever make? How could I show them that it would alter their history? Change their heart? Dictate their future?
I sat there in awe because yes, indeed this Gospel is simple, but by no means is it easy.
How lovely that it is powerful enough to invite in a young child, encourage a staggering adult, heal a broken man, and change a dark soul.
I wanted to tell them so many things. I had so many words. But I had to choose what was important and that is the Gospel. The Gospel that would not change today or when they were 65 years old looking back to that moment when they chose to follow Jesus. But if I could choose, if I could decide what to tell these beautiful girls on the most important day of their lives: it would have been this.

I want you to know how grateful I am that you have entered the Kingdom. I want you to know that the simplicity of the Gospel will not change but the tests of time and faith will increase. I wish I could explain to you the first moment when the truth of what Jesus did for me sunk in, but I'm not sure it was a moment, rather a series of small moments which have weaved together to become a tapestry that is me. I remember being in your shoes. I remember being a small girl, asking Jesus into my heart for the first time, not entirely sure what that meant but convinced that it had just altered the path I would walk. I remember being a camper nearing the end of my elementary journey, whispering prayers because for the first time I was wrestling with sin. The kind that I was afraid of, the one that I was ashamed of, and I prayed that Jesus would wash me clean. The sinful thoughts did not fade right away, but Jesus was faithful as I learned to set my gaze on Him. I wish I could explain to you that it wasn't easy. I wish I could show you a mirror into my soul and you could see the turmoil of that memory but the peace that has replaced it. 

I want you to know that when hard things come it doesn't mean that Jesus has withdrawn his love. When the doctor's words break your heart, I want you to know that Jesus is there. That in his sovereignty, this trial will be used for good. Because, love, the day I found out my mom was dying, was the first of the hardest days of my life. I didn't know in that moment but my heart was launched into space, where it would float slowly through time and plummet quickly into a black hole that stole everything that held me secure. But the way my heart was encouraged that day was the Gospel. Jesus sent arms to wrap around me, people to hold me, words to encourage me, songs to fill my heart with truth. I want you to know that the gospel is there too. When we say goodbye to those we hold dear, the Gospel is the steadfast in the earthquake, the strong light from the Lighthouse in the hurricane. 

I want you to know that sometimes where He calls us makes little sense. How could it when he calls us from our home? When he calls you to a different state to heal your soul? Or when he calls you to another country, to people who don't speak your language? To share moments with people, to plant seeds, water gardens or harvest the ground? How can I explain how exponentially it fills your heart or how thoroughly it breaks it?

I wish I could I tell you about the time I said "Yes" to Jesus. It was the time I counted up the cost of following this man. A speaker told us that when we count the cost of following Jesus it will always lead to joy. If we have not found joy, we have added incorrectly. I went outside and I walked and I walked and I walked until I stumbled upon the joy of following Jesus. You see, it doesn't come from my circumstance, but it comes with the deep and beautiful and vast and wide joy of knowing Jesus Christ as my Lord. The joy did not come from following a list of rules about right and wrong, but it came from the assurance in my heart that God incarnate resided inside of me and I have the privilege of knowing him. 

Love, I want you to know this isn't easy. I want you to know that I have felt crippling pain, but I have met the great Healer. He doesn't always heal me the way I desire or hope, but he changes me. I want you to know how thrilling it is to follow him. Like this moment, when I get to share the central focus that has become my life. 

Because, my friend, the Gospel is so extravagant. More vast than the stars you gaze into at night and more lovely than the most delicate of flowers. 

And this is what I choose to share with you, on the most important day of your life:

Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the Creator of the Universe, the maker of Heaven and earth, the sustainer of this land, came to earth. He came and he walked a lonely earth. He came and He loved a broken people. He touched the untouchables, he loved the unloveable. He turned water into wine, He made the blind man see, He made the dead man walk.
Jesus Christ saw our broken state and left Paradise to come to us. When we could not come to Him, when we did not care, when we turned our back, He came. He came to be Immanuel, He came to be God with us. Not only did He come, but He called His followers to Himself. He called them to be different, to be Lights in the world that shine against the darkness.
He laid down his life for us. He saw our desperate state and sacrificed His perfection so we could enter the throne room of God.
Jesus Christ died a death He did not deserve for an underserved people. Three days later, He rose from the grave and conquered death.
HE IS the way the truth and the life. No one can come to the Father except through Him. The Gospel is revolutionary.
The Gospel is simply this: what we could not do, He did.
And He opens the invitation for those of us who want to enter.
"For if you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead you will be saved." (Romans 10:9)


I want you to know that the Gospel is simple, it is not easy but it is worth every second.

I could not tell these girls this, but I could tell them the Gospel, and I pray with everything inside of me that it is enough to carry them through everything. I pray that they learn these lessons with time. I pray that they continue to say "Yes," to Jesus. I stand amazed because the power that is in this simplicity is overwhelming and it has overcome me. 

Grace Like An Ocean

What if it wasn’t enough? All the love that we bottled up and poured out on the ones we held most dear? We filled our leaking vessels with what we thought would fill the hearts that fester and bleed. We took our unsteady acts of kindness and fragile gifts of hope and offer them like a small child giving the gift of a dandelion to their mother. Deep inside, we know it’s not enough, but it stands firm on the foundation of love. The dandelion fades, the kindness is whisped away like a feather in the wind, but the steadfast gift of love remains.

But it is possible that it wasn’t enough. As age came and captured our bodies, the vessels of our hearts became heavier, like a roof that has endured enough storms, it caves. But we don’t take the time for restoration. And we fill, fill, fill, yet it is never enough. Because we leak, leak, leak.

Until there is nothing left to refill it with.

Until we are empty.

And dry.

And so exhausted.

Then comes the anger. Because we are empty and our love isn’t working. Our communication skills shattered on the ground. Angry with ourselves for trying and failing. And this is close to home.
Because what was the center of my world for so long I see has a failure.
What was the very reason for the breath in my lungs was meaningless.

A valiant effort, like a baby eagle, kicked out of the nest, stretched his tiny wings out, believing he could fly, but plummets to the ground.
It was not without rescue though, because the mother Eagle never lets her baby down. Just as the baby eagle thinks he will never soar above the trees again, she swoops into his helpless state and catches him and flies back to the nest, only for the process to begin again.

But I’m not a baby eagle. I’m a grown eagle, who is tired. I’m unable to save those who are falling. I won’t reach them in time. And even if I did, my strength is not able to save them, because they aren’t baby eagles either.

There are gifts for moments like this.

Restoration and grace have a way of offering the solace we need.

It begins with a picture of the ocean.

The ocean is relentless. Never once does the water fail to kiss the shore or the waves to crash on onto the sandy edge of the earth. It is faithful to the shore. Sometimes ravishing the coast after ferocious winds stir up its strength. Sometimes gently touching the shore, reminding us of his presence. What a picture of grace, I thought, as I stood with the water tickling my toes. The deeper I went, the more I felt washed clean by the dirty water. Jumping the waves, laying onto of their majesty, tossed by their power, suddenly a kid again. The worries, the fears, the tensions all fade away.

It’s like that with grace. I can run, fast and far, away from grace. But without it, there is no restoration, there is no hope.

Sometimes we run from it for valid reasons. Memories roared in my head of when the waves were unkind to my body, when fear flooded my heart and the water terrorized me. Before I had learned the art of the ocean, before I had embraced the love of danger that comes with adventure, stories of me as a little girl being taken by the ocean, a memory I cannot shake here at the shore. But I refuse to let the fear stop me from returning to this powerful force that paints a portrait of grace.

I wonder though, why we always compare the attributes of God to dangerous things?
Grace like an ocean, love like a hurricane, an avalanche. Peace like a river.

Is it because He's dangerous? Is it because what He can do to me could wreck my soul? Maybe I need to drown in Him so He can teach me the value of each breath that I take. Maybe we need His grace to be an ocean because it is unexpected. It might not be what we wanted, what we dreamed about as a child and wished on the bright stars for. But it is far more extravagant, far more lovely than our dreams could ever be. Even the hurricanes and the tsunamis are for our good. It does not come without grief or pain. But the grief is there to soften us and the pain to build up others. Grace is dangerous, unexpectedly so. But grace is also gentle and kind because it is a gift that changes me in the most beautiful of ways. Grace is the ocean that ravages the shores of my life in a hurricane, it wrecks the things that I once thought lovely so that he can build me up into God’s workmanship, that resembles Him, that shines brightly so that they no longer see me, but they see Christ within me. Grace isn’t what I thought, but it is what I need. It is beyond all I hoped for. Grace unveils the truth that I am not enough but covers me so that I am. Grace unravels the truth that I am more flawed than I dare admit but weaves me back together into a testimony of mercy and love. Grace extends a bridge because my offering was not enough, but it lays the foundation of the offering that was. 

Thank you, Lord, for offering me Grace like an ocean, vast and deep and wide, when I deserved nothing of the kind.

“But because of His great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ, even when we were dead in our trespasses. It is by grace you have been saved! And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with Him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages He might display the surpassing riches of His grace, demonstrated by His kindness to us in Christ Jesus. For it is by grace you have been saved through faith, and this not from yourselves; it is the gift of God, not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s workmanship created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance as our way of life." Ephesians 2:4-10

rest for the weary

two years ago I made a promise,

I was waiting

          and waiting

                and waiting.

I gave the Lord my heart, fully and truly. 

The thirsty, shattered pieces,

and the dusty, forgotten rooms,

he had it all. 

but my heart was yearning,

thirsty,

desperate for more of him,

for him to show me the purpose for the pain,

meaning for the struggle. 

My heart's song was devotion and dedication,

no matter how unsteady my faltering feet. 

Terrified of my heart's capacity,

frightened of my distracted heart's wandering,

 I clung ever so tightly to Jesus.

The waiting did not last forever, 

he stayed true to his word.

but there were other prayers, 

bigger pleas,

more important matters,

I said, "Jesus, please."

but he did not come.

I begged, "Jesus, PLEASE."

but he stayed away. 

I cried, "Jesus I need you."

Why didn't he come?

Why hasn't he come?

There are seasons of desperation. When our faith is rooted in history, not sight. When our belief in our Savior is planted firmly in memory of what He has done before. In these exhausting seasons, our reservoirs of faith are often drawn upon.
Sometimes, the reservoirs become nearly dry. Like a trek up a mountain, our energy spent, every muscle in our body shaking, crying out for rest. Parched mouths search the sky for rain and scavenge the ground for streams.
Just as we are about to collapse, as our knees begin to buckle, the call is to lift up our eyes.
Because the spring of Living water is ahead, the reservoir filled with the supplies to rejuvenate our aching bones is just before us.

I haven't seen the reservoir yet. I am still trudging the mountain, knowing it's close, sure as the sun that it is not far off. But the strength I once had confidence in is fading. The energy I once thrived on is completely spent. My bones are crying out, they've been bruised from the fall. I am clumsier than I once was. My muscles scream, weaker than I had believed.

So what do we do when the reservoir is still a long way off? What do we do when our hearts are weary? Or when sleep is restless and we cannot find the energy we need to go on? What about when the thoughts swirl recklessly in our mind, uncaring of the destruction they cause, the anxiety they invite? Where is the peace like a river that passes all understanding?

I know I am not the only one to ask these questions. I know I am not the only one to wrestle and struggle with the God that I love.

His most beautiful answer is hidden away in Isaiah 40.

"Comfort," He begins. A passage of comfort for his hurting and weary nation, for his people who feel they cannot lift their heads. He comforts them with himself. The following verses are questions to remind them of himself. In verse 25 he goes on,

"To whom then will you compare me, that I should be like him? says the Holy One. Lift up your eyes on high and see: who created these? He who brings out their host by number, calling them all by name, by the greatness of his might, and because he is strong in power, not one is missing."

This God, this powerful, mighty strong God calls the stars by name and not one is out of his reach. He speaks lovely of the great mystery that covers our sleep at night and goes on to speak kindness to the greatest of his creation, humanity.

"Why do you say, O Jacob, and speak O Israel, 'my way is hidden from the Lord, and my right is disregarded by my God?'"

These words may not have drifted carelessly from my mouth but my mind has wrestled them. The painful circumstances before me, my eyes focused only on them, and my heart is sure, the Lord does not care, he cannot see, this does not matter.

But these words of hope are not filled with accusation.

"Have you not known? Have you not heard?" He gently calls his people to reflection.

Of course, they had known! These were the Israelites! They knew their God. He had led them through the seas, out of slavery and into victory. They had known, the stories had been passed down from generation to generation. There was not a doubt that he had been faithful before. But would he be faithful again?

"The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable. He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might he increases strength. Even youths shall faint and be weary, and young men shall fall exhausted; but they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint."

This is a gospel message to us. It is for us who have fainted and grown weary with the demands of life. For us who cannot understand the workings of this world. To us who are youths and yet feel we there is not an ounce of strength left in our bones. He promises to renew our strength, to be God to our brokenness. He is good, he is the creator of the ends of the earth. How could we doubt him?

But maybe you are like me. Maybe the promise of strength is great. But you aren't sure if you want to continue. You aren't sure if it is worth your time. You wonder that even if He does renew your strength, how much longer will this take? How much more must we wrestle with before our hearts are at ease, our bones can rest, our souls at peace?

The next promise is for us.

"Listen to me in silence," he says. (1) Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." (9-10)... "I am the one who helps you, declares the Lord; your Redeemer is the Holy One of Israel. (14)
'When the poor and needy seek water and there is none, and their tongue is parched with thirst, I the Lord will answer them; I the God of Israel will not forsake them. I will open rivers on the bare heights and fountains in the midst of the valleys... (17)."

His promise is for us. Listen to him. Fear not, yes, it will be hard, but he will help us. He will answer us and not forsake us. He will do the miraculous because of his immense love for us.
In spite of the pain and the difficulty, he will provide for us.

I have to believe that the glory that is to be revealed with this story is far greater than the glory that was revealed in the last. 

I have to believe that Jesus will continue to be kind and gracious and good to my heart.

I have to believe in this hope that is invisible.

I cannot see it. I do not know how this will remain true, but I believe in my God. My hope is fully in Him. 

And I have faith. that this will come to pass because He is good.
I believe that He will renew my strength, he may not lessen my load, but he will strengthen my bones. He may not silence my tears, but will help me and be with me. He may not take this away, but he satisfy me in the desert places.