It was never an issue of whether or not I thought God could handle any of my situations. It wasn’t a matter of whether He was big enough or strong enough. I just didn’t think His version of what was best for me and my version were in the same ballpark. I was pretty sure that since there was probably always something I was doing wrong, I was supposed to learn my lessons the hard way. -Just so I wouldn’t forget. That being said, I was constantly in fear of being taught a lesson.
As a young wife, the idea that my husband considered me beautiful was bittersweet because I also thought that it was all I had to offer him. Naturally I assumed that God was going to take that away from me to make me beautiful on the inside instead; so I had en ever-present fear of some type of accident or fire that would leave me disfigured. Later, after the death of my son, the birth of my daughter with special needs, and subsequent birth of our youngest daughter who was ‘normal’, I lived in fear that it was only a matter of time before something would happen to her because it was too good to be true. Good things were not holy things. They were magnets for trouble.
I was alone, though surrounded by children; a married but very single mom. Frightened of potential natural disasters, intruders, sickness, or accidents, I was constantly stressed out. Always angry. The idea of trusting God was out of the question because He would just make it worse, so it was best to keep Him at arms length. Funny thing though, I also had a secret longing somewhere down deep to have a connection with God that I had witnessed a choice few seemed to have. I didn’t know how to describe or express it, but the longing was there. There had to be more… I was missing something.
The disintegration of my marriage 2 years after I went nuclear on my husband and spewed all the things I was dissatisfied and angry with him about was the final straw that broke my camel’s back. I really was alone now. I really was helpless. I really didn’t have any hope. I really didn’t have anything left to fight with. The crunch of bones as I hit bottom was sickening, yet a relief in a twisted way. I gave up.
I didn’t ask for God’s help, my Mom did. As she listened to me come apart over the phone, explaining that my marriage was over, she began to pray for me, – and I let her. I didn’t care anymore. Curling up on the bottom of my dry bathtub fully clothed, I heaved great, wracking sobs of despair, simply grateful that someone was listening to me. It was almost startling to realize that as I listened to my mother asking God to give me peace and comfort, I began to feel something foreign course through me. My crying ceased, but I knew I wasn’t done. I didn’t want to be done. But I felt something smooth out my insides, like a lake that had been tumultuously crashing against the shore suddenly calm as glass. It was surreal. I knew it was God. Somehow my mom had gotten through to Him. Weird.
Sometimes coming to the end of ourselves can give God the opportunity to whisper His comfort and love for us, because otherwise we may not hear Him.