From the Archives: Like Me
I wrote this post over a decade ago. I can still vividly remember this season -- of being an audience of some much heartbreak and loss. I watched friends walk through divorce, miscarriages and injustice. And I felt helpless and angry. Since I've written these words, I've had my own seasons of grief, and my mind comes back here, to David and the Psalms and those moments of turning from grief to hope. One day, I'd like to sit in these thoughts, explore what 10 more years wisdom has brought. But for now, I wanted to share this. In case anyone needs to hear it.
I don’t understand your plan today.
I don’t understand how you can give someone a flutter of hope, followed so quickly by a dagger of pain.
Your plan doesn’t seem perfect today. I know your promise of giving your children what’s best—never more than we can handle. But I don’t understand how this can be what’s best.
If I were David, this is where I would switch to praise. Where I would extol your name. But I can’t. I just can’t tonight.
I wonder how long it took David to write his psalms to you. Did his pen flow from questions to adoration? Did he draw a shaky breath in and let a joyful breath out? Was his faith is pure, so perfect that before his tears had dried he could see clearly.
Or did his pen scratch furiously across the paper, ripping holes in the delicate parchment? Did dark ink blots form as he sat and waited for the praises to pour forth. Did he cry and shout and moan, not able to force the hallelujahs past his lips.
Did he fling things in anger? Were there ink stains on his walls to remind him of his anguish? Crushed scrolls in the dusty corners?
Did he ever just walk away? Turn his back on the words that were too painful to write.
I don’t know which David I prefer. The one whose faith never wavered. Or the one like me.