My mother has a friend, an elderly man, who was preparing to go on a cruise. This first required a flight and before leaving for the airport the man, knowing that he might be walking on some uneven territory, grabbed an old cane, a walking stick that had belonged to his grandfather. It had sat in the corner, used only occasionally.
The man and his traveling companions stood in line for security at the airport. They noticed that those to whom they had entrusted to keep them safe were eying his cane very carefully, examining it from every angle. Suddenly, to the extreme surprise of the gentleman, the agent pulled on the cane and out whisked a very long, very sharp sword.
Chaos ensued. The travelers were rushed away, interrogated, but fortunately were deemed harmless and allowed to travel, sans the antique threat to national security.
It’s been dry around here lately. My heart, I mean. My spirit is parched.
Last November I spoke at a retreat on the extremely weighty issue of how God uses our suffering for His glory. I believed that God had called me to tackle this topic but the stress of it was overwhelming. After reading every book I could find on suffering, listening to every podcast, and pouring over every bible verse, and trying not to throw up in between sessions, I was drained. I had immersed myself in the Word for weeks and when it was all over, my sin nature immediately said “No more! Bring on the chick lit! DVR up the drivel! I need a break from all things deep and godly!”
It’s disgusting, actually.
About this same time, I discovered things about the adoption industry in Ethiopia that ushered in more nausea. Overwhelmed by information and confronted by the shocking ugliness of sin, plus accepting that bringing our daughter home is probably not on God’s agenda for 2012 caused my spirit to withdraw even more. Am I angry at God? I don’t think so. Am I jaded and cynical? More than ever before. Am I in despair? Yes.
Throw in the all the other worldly diversions and my bible has sat neglected for weeks.
My soul almost recoils at the thought of reading it. My short prayers consist mainly of, “I’m really sorry God. Thank you for loving me anyway.”
Oh wretched woman that I am! Who shall deliver me from this body of death?
