In My Distress, In My Brokenness

The news was heartbreaking. I was devastated.

Maybe it was the accumulative effect of one issue after the other. But to get that piece of news was simply crushing.

The swirl of emotions was intense. Anger, outrage, pain, grief like I had rarely felt before in my life. No one had died physically, but this news might as well have been a fatal incident for the lives that would be irreparably affected by the decisions.

The hurt sent me back to other occasions where the words and actions of loved ones had torn asunder relationships that I thought would last forever. The scars of those episodes ached again in the light of the latest developments and made the pain all the more seemingly unbearable.

In my distress, in my grief, I cried out to the Lord. I cried. I wailed. I sobbed and moaned sometimes uncontrollably. I asked God why. I asked Him why as though He would tell me. I asked Him as though He owed me an explanation for all this. I cried and I cried to Him. Pouring out all that was in me about this situation. Did I lash out? Maybe I did. I don’t regret my outburst. I did not profane Him. I knew I had the freedom to pour out my soul to Him. I knew that He would hear me even beyond the words that came out of my mouth.

In my brokenness I unburdened myself to Him. I felt bereft of any sense of hope. Reality appeared to be such a nightmare. A seemingly never-ending series of moments of promise smashed to pieces by actions and words from the sharp and jagged edges of people operating out of their brokenness.

I didn’t bawl and wail as though I was innocent and above these issues. I was well aware of what I have done in my own past. Yet where this situation was concerned, I honestly turned to the Lord and wondered if it was worth holding out any longer. All those talks about looking at the bright side of things and seeking the positive in the situation seemed like delusional and pathetic efforts to mask the depravity of humanity. Was it worth it?

In my distress, in my brokenness, God heard me.

God let me vent. God gave me the space to weep. God gave me the time to mourn.

I felt no reproach and no rebuke.

I was reminded once more to consider that which I felt in the light of what the life of Jesus is all about. Why the gospel matters at times like this. Why these cries are necessary in looking at the mission of the Son of God.

I was reminded once more to look at the various episodes of travesty and depravity that gave reason for so much of what Jesus came to do. Lame, blind, demon-possessed, ostracised by society, estranged by the self-righteous, perpetrators of injustice, victims of systemic abuse. That was just the tip of the iceberg.

Jesus waded through those stormy issues of life. He touched and healed. He spoke hope and deliverance. Captives were set free. Sight was restored. As well that though, for all the activity, there was the overwhelming beauty in knowing that His presence was there. The poor, the neglected, the hungry catered for because His presence was there. Here was the Son of God present. Here were the broken in His presence. They cried out to Him and He responded.

He cared then and He cares now for those who cry out to Him.

He cared then and He showed His care to me when I cried out to Him.

In my distress in my brokenness, I cried out to Him.

And He heard my cry.

(Photo by Tim Marshall on Unsplash)

For His Name’s Sake

Shalom

C. L. J. Dryden