No longer crushed in the black and hopeless pit.
No longer suffering under the scathing scorn of those who pull the pin and toss their malicious grenades before scurrying back to their stinking hellholes.
No longer giving the enemy a place on my shoulder, next to my ear. No ear, no millisecond of time for accusing lies from within or without.
The lies that echo round and round and round until they roll easily off the tongue.
“Where now is your God? The God you claimed would never abandon His people? You must have failed Him. Don’t you dare blame Him for this. This was your failure.”
No more lies about who I am.
No more lies about who God is.
A helpless god?
A helpless god is no comfort to me.
A private god that fits in my hand, that molds itself to my will.
A sweet, fluffy vanilla marshmallow god that I can squeeze and sniff when I feel stressed.
No comfort to me.
A simple god?
A simple god is no comfort to me.
A god formed by an insistence that All must fit inside my tiny, blind, helpless but rebellious paradigm.
A god formed by the superstitious acceptance of simple cause-and-effect that my earthbound mind can easily encompass. My goat must be dry because those twins were born to my neighbor.
Even the god of scientific superstition made of desperation for logical connections and rejection of the offensive idea of a transcendent and all-powerful God.
Such a god is no comfort to me.
But even if it was…
Even if it was…
I made that ancient god myself.
I would not trust it nor give myself to it.
Will I trust the scrabblings and creatings of my own mind?
Or the One who has revealed Himself to me as sovereign over all?
I cannot do both.
I was created for One who is greater than myself. He decides who He is, I don’t decide who I want Him to be.
In this truth lies my greatest torment and my greatest safety.
I don’t get to skip to the end, artificially peaceful smile plastered over the wrenching agony.
I am Jacob, wrestling to the finish with a muscled and complex God.
How dare I?
But He invites me to the struggle; He does not rebuke me for it. He named His people Israel.
I can’t control Him.
Torment to a Self who longs for autonomy.
A Self who is more influenced by her man-centered, choice-worshiping culture than she knew.
The Self who is sure she could write a better ending.
I can’t control Him.
True safety for a child who is strongly bonded to her father. Am I? I want to be.
I am leaning purposefully into my Father’s lap, relinquishing my anguished and pitiful efforts to survive by staying in control, knowing–knowing–He decides what is best for me out of His great love for me.
I trust the One who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up to die for me.
I am safe in Him.
And because of the safety, comfort.
A simple, weak, helpless God? Trying His best, but He doesn’t always get His way? The enemy is stronger? Bad stuff keeps getting through when He’s not looking?
He is All, or He is nothing.
That means He is All Love.
And I will not let You go until You bless me!