Letters to God: I. Weeping

{these next six posts are my personal application of lament, the second part of the series I posted earlier. I hesitated to share these on my blog, but realized if I’m talking about being open with lament, then I need to do so, too}

Dear God,
Will there be certain days that always hurt because of what happened on them?
Will I ever be able to sing Beneath the Cross of Jesus and Be Still My Soul without crying because they are so laden with memories and heartache?
Will stars, clouds, full moons, and waterfalls always have pangs of loneliness amidst the delight?
And yet for all the pain and sorrow I feel, it’s so removed from me. I know so little of it; my life is so untouched by it. I have friends who have been through so much. When stories were told and the one had good intentions but he wore a mask and then wounded her, and another was fighting for a friend while suffering herself; a third pushed through hurt after hurt seeking joy, and the fourth, who no one thought could be lonely, had been left alone by so many.
I know you’re there for all of them. I know they are clinging to You, finding healing, strength, joy, and stability there. But why did you bring this to any of them in the first place? Couldn’t you have given them Yourself another way?

I don’t understand what it feels like to go through it myself. I don’t know the depths of depression or the pain of intense suffering. I didn’t know how to help the one who was going through it, except to pray.

On my 19th birthday, Mr. M read me something that his daughter-in-law had written to the family. The letter talked about how Jesus was a Man of Sorrows. And then she wrote of Romans 8, and how we are being conformed to the image of Christ. She tied the two together: being conformed to His image means we must be people of sorrow.
And even though it is a fearful thought, I rejoiced. Because I do sorrow. I sometimes sense very strongly that the world is not right. I know things aren’t the way they’re supposed to be. And it hurts. And I want to know why you let it be not-right. Why have so many in Syria died? Why do you let children be sold into slavery? Why do people struggle so much for joy? I don’t get it.

But I know You. I know You are good; I have seen Your goodness. I know You do nothing wrong. I know someday we’ll see this from the other side. And so somehow I still trust You, still stay with You when there are so many unanswered questions. And I know that the Man of Sorrows understands, and comforts. Thank you.

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