June 18, 2001
Revised: June 21, 2001
How do I trust? Isn’t that what it all boils down to—trusting Who I cannot see, cannot touch, cannot feel? I don’t want to grow, dammit! I want to go back to The Way Things Were Before. Before You changed, and tried to change me.
But I know You have not changed. You have revealed something of Yourself I have not seen before, something terrifying, frightening, unsettling. It is something of the heart of a Father, something I have long avoided. It is the part of You that wishes me to become mature, the part of You that is answering my oft repeated prayer, "Make me into the woman You want me to be." Indeed, we need to be careful what we ask You for!
I have not forgotten who I am and Whom I belong to, but in the darkness I have lost sight of Your goodness. I admit to not being sure who You are anymore, or what I can expect from this unique relationship.
Who are You that You would inflict this upon me, or even "merely" allow it? Who are You to put the creation You claim to love through this hell called life, then say "no" to healing when it is so pleadingly asked for? What good are you anyway? But I have only questions. No answers. No peace.
Yet sometimes I can almost believe You are good. There have been so many moments over the past 10 days when You have given me more than I could have hoped for or believed. Working on the Trail, meeting Michael, if only for a couple of hours, even just spending a quiet Sabbath afternoon reading with my feet up, sipping a drink and listening to the breeze rustling in the trees. At moments like that I taste something of Your goodness, something of eternity, and I almost believe.
That is what it all comes down to, isn’t it? Eternity, heaven, the glory that makes earthly suffering pale in significance? It is our hope, our only real hope.
So Father, I don’t know who You are anymore, and I have more questions than answers. I don’t trust Your heart or Your character. Above all, I don’t really understand anything anymore. Truly when I had all the answers figured out, the questions changed.
God, only You can tame this anger within me, an anger toward You, an undercurrent all along. I pray You will overcome this in my life. I know that I am in Your hands. Since I don’t trust You, that terrifies me.
I could go on, but I would only have more questions, and You don’t seem to interested in providing answers. But I suppose that’s the point: if You gave me what I asked for—healing, answers, a personal appearance—I would have no need of faith, and somehow, in some way I can’t understand, faith means that much to You. Faith, and maturity, but we already covered that.
Other than shrieking at You in anger, rambling, incoherent, this is really all I have to say. I pray that You will hold on tight to me through this wilderness, until I come out the other side into the light of a new day.