Job 29:2-5
I think I am at a crossroads. I feel scattered, unfocused, directionless, and generally just plain overwhelmed. There is a very solid chance, according to my surgeon, that this sensation is at least partially due to an ongoing reaction to last week's general anesthesia, lingering effects of an allergic reaction to hydrocodone, or a combination of the two. This knowledge, however, does not suffice to silence the barely-suppressed panic that claws at the edges of my mind in the dead hours of the night. In the light of day, the tears still squeeze out and a vague, undefinable uneasiness lurks just out of reach of conscious thought. I understand it and the cause behind it, but knowing there are no monsters under the bed does not necessarily quell the feeling of fear.
During this week, I have felt crazily isolated and lonely. Even God has seemed remote to me despite my reaching toward Him in prayer. However, I have been in places like this before--dark valleys sometimes caused by my own sin and at other times by fatigue or an impending migraine. Today as I am tossed about on a gradually calming chemical tempest, I am thankful for those past walks through the gloom. I am grateful for all the times God's hand was less apparent in my life so that I could discover that it was my perception that was skewed and not His presence. I am equally appreciative for the men like Job and David who so openly gave vent to their despair, for when I read their words I feel a kinship that reaches through the centuries and I no longer feel quite alone.
And so, as the storm expends its fury, I cling to my Rock and know that even when my hands are too benumbed to feel His solidity, He is there. As I wait with flagging strength for time to soothe the foaming fusillade, I whisper praises that are caught up and dissipated in the furious wind, but I murmur them still. I recall the promises of my King who has promised never to leave me or forsake me, and I force my mind to remember that His promises are not bound to the quavering and changeable emotions of my flesh but to a steadfast and ancient purpose that cannot be budged.
And I gratefully meditate on the beautiful words of an ancient shepherd-king; a lifeline reminder of a hope that no storm can quash:
During this week, I have felt crazily isolated and lonely. Even God has seemed remote to me despite my reaching toward Him in prayer. However, I have been in places like this before--dark valleys sometimes caused by my own sin and at other times by fatigue or an impending migraine. Today as I am tossed about on a gradually calming chemical tempest, I am thankful for those past walks through the gloom. I am grateful for all the times God's hand was less apparent in my life so that I could discover that it was my perception that was skewed and not His presence. I am equally appreciative for the men like Job and David who so openly gave vent to their despair, for when I read their words I feel a kinship that reaches through the centuries and I no longer feel quite alone.
And so, as the storm expends its fury, I cling to my Rock and know that even when my hands are too benumbed to feel His solidity, He is there. As I wait with flagging strength for time to soothe the foaming fusillade, I whisper praises that are caught up and dissipated in the furious wind, but I murmur them still. I recall the promises of my King who has promised never to leave me or forsake me, and I force my mind to remember that His promises are not bound to the quavering and changeable emotions of my flesh but to a steadfast and ancient purpose that cannot be budged.
And I gratefully meditate on the beautiful words of an ancient shepherd-king; a lifeline reminder of a hope that no storm can quash:
Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my salvation and my God.
Psalms 43:5
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